


Birthrights

by RikkiTikkiCathy



Series: Makers [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adamant, Amatus, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Baby Dorian, Banter, BioWare, Blow Jobs, Brandy Whiskey and Wine, Busted, Comfort, Confessions, Copycat Cole, Dancing, Dish, Dorian Being Dorian, Dreaming, Dreams, Drink it Away, Drinking, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erotic Massage, Explicit Sexual Content, Extended Scene, Fade Nerd, Fashion Backstory, Feet Washing, Filling In the Gaps, First Time Bottoming, Fitzwilliam Trevelyan, Fluff, Foolish, Fun, Glass Prison, Hair Washing, Here Lies the Abyss, Home, How bad does the Inquisitor want to be, How to be an Elf, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I am not a nice man, I tease too much, Last Resort of Good Men, Love, Love isn't enough, M/M, Makeup Sex, Malefica Imperio, Master Pavus, Masturbation, Mistakes, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Peace, Physically Impossible Love Child, Plot, Prickles, Prostate Massage, Red is your Color, Romance, Say It Again, Scheming, Self-Destruction, Sex Magic, Slow Burn, Snowball Fight, Somniari, Stay, Stayed, Stubborn, The Magister's Birthright, The Nonsense You Speak, The Observer - Freeform, Undue Influence, Voyeurism, Waking, What Could Have Been, Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Winterfest, bond, control play, curtain, needy sex, secret, suggested reading, vulnerable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 125,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2957918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RikkiTikkiCathy/pseuds/RikkiTikkiCathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor finds acceptance, bravery, and love. M-Inquisitor/Dorian Rated M... for eventually. ALERT: This story will contain MAJOR spoilers. If you haven't seen all the Dorian cut scenes and want to experience them first, bookmark this story and come back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

 

Chapter 1

 

                Fitzwilliam Trevelyan walked the familiar path to the library keep. The stone stairs were worn, cold even through his heavy leather boots, but the light was warm as he stepped through the archway and into the room proper.

                He glanced about quickly, scanning the room for the tell-tale glint of fire off the diamond-shaped adornments of Dorian’s favored coat. He pretended that wasn’t why he was there, as he always did. Often he came for legitimate reasons -- to drop off field research, to continue upward to speak with Leliana. But always he scanned the room for _him_. He wondered for a moment when that had begun but soon shook his head to clear it.

                Dorian was not in the room as far as he could see. The Inquisitor’s heart sank a little with that. Naturally, the mage might be anywhere. His quarters, the tavern, visiting other friends. He tried not to think about that last one. However, Dorian’s favorite chair was not visible from the current vantage point. There remained, yet, a chance it might be occupied. A chance that Fitzwilliam might lift his spirts after all.

                He did his best to appear as if he were merely taking a stroll, but when he rounded the corner… well, when he rounded the _round_ (bloody room!), he could not help peering. He expected to see him there, leg crossed atop his knee, book in one hand, wine in another, perhaps an amused smirk across his face that made his eyes crinkle at the edges just so… but what he found was an empty chair, illuminated by the flickering of the fire. His heart sank, and he slumped against the railing, staring forlornly at the alcove.

                The fire was still bright, doing a fine job keeping the dark and chill of the night at bay. The room was empty, in fact, except for the tranquil mage across the way. She seemed absorbed in her work. The fire really was roaring, he had likely just missed the very scene he was picturing. Perhaps he might be able to go ask the tranquil… but no. What would he do anyway? Track the mage to his rooms? That would certainly attract attention. He didn’t even know what he would say.

                “Deep in thought, I see.” Fitzwilliam jumped at the familiar drawl and felt his face flush as Dorian laughed boisterously. Everything the man did was boisterous. “And what was it you were considering, I wonder?” The mage made his way around Fitzwilliam and placed an old scroll on the table. “Formulating plans to stop the next great disaster, I imagine.” Fitzwilliam said nothing. He could think of nothing. Nothing but the glint of light on Dorian’s coat and exposed skin. The smell of him as he walked by, olive oil and citrus and spice. The joy of knowing he was there after all.

“Inquisitor?” the voice echoed around him in a dreamy way. The room was quite warm. The wine he’d had before he came up the spiral stair sloshed in his stomach. He smiled, dazedly. “Are you okay?” The words buzzed. His head was fuzzy. A hand grabbed his arm. “Fitz!”

The inquisitor blinked. And blinked again. His eyes met the sweet grey-blue of Dorian’s. They looked… off, concerned. Fitzwilliam smiled. His hand reached up and brushed his fingertips across the stubbled jaw before him. The eyes widened. His arm fell away. “You’ve never called me that before,” he heard himself say.

Dorian smiled, but the concern was still there. “Are you okay, your worship?” The words sounded so playful when he said them. As if the mage were merely a child playing with formalities. Fitzwilliam nodded silently, his eyes going to the warm spot on his arm where Dorian still grasped him. “You look pale, Inquisitor.” Fitzwilliam shrugged. “Have you eaten? It’s well past the dinner bell.”

The Herald shook his head. “Had wine,” he heard himself say.

“Lord, Fitz, is that what this is about? You’re sodden?” The words came out in an amused, but hushed voice.

“You said it again,” he giggled. The mage rolled his eyes.

“What? Your name? Yes, I know your name. Truly, I am a scholar for the ages!” He grasped the Inquisitor firmly by his upper arm and led him to the alcove. He turned him, and sat him in the chair. “Stay,” he said and for a moment Fitzwilliam thought he might receive a pat on the head. But Dorian merely walked away. The Herald of Andraste made a sound that was most certainly not a whimper. He didn’t want Dorian to walk away.

“Eat,” the voice said, and Fitzwilliam opened his eyes to see Dorian standing above him, with a tray of bread and cheese. How long had the man been gone? And how did Fitzwilliam end up curled up on the floor next to the fire? When the scent of the cheese hit his nose it no longer mattered. He was _ravenous_. How had he not known? Dorian sat on the floor beside him while the other man ate. After the eating slowed from “shoveling” to “pushing” Dorian spoke again. “Maker above, man, how much did you drink?”

The Inquisitor shrugged. In truth it had been one glass of quite strong mulled wine. But there was no way Dorian could know… “Andraste’s tit! It was a single glass wasn’t it? The Herald is a light-weight!” Fitzwilliam sputtered and coughed on his food… in the most dignified way.

“How did you… I mean… No, I…” Fitzwilliam attempted.  Dorian laughed. Then he fell onto his back and laughed more.

“I bribed the servants. But your face,” he continued to laugh, barely squeaking out “priceless” before needing to gulp for air.

“It was quite strong, I hadn’t eaten, and I drank it all in one go…” He tried to reason.

Dorian sat up and wiped his eyes. When he looked at Fitzwilliam with delight and amusement, and something … _more_ the Inquisitor was rendered breathless.

“So what were you doing here, _drunk_ , anyway?” The mage poked the bread and cheese about but did not eat any.

“Oh, uh… walking.” The last word went up a bit at the end, prompting Dorian.

“Is that a question?” His voice was full of amusement, but he still wasn’t looking up.

“No, I was… I just went for a walk and I found myself here.” Fitzwilliam looked to the tray to hide his blush.

“Oh. So not looking for me then?” Dorian’s words were easy but there was something in his voice. Disappointment?

_No, not specifically._ The words bounced in his head but Fitzwilliam could not say them. It was an outright lie. Perhaps he sometimes bent his words but he preferred not to lie. And to lie to Dorian… He’d taken too long to answer, Dorian looked up, and Fitzwilliam’s gaze followed as if pulled by and unseen force – current, wind, polarity. Dorian studied him, waiting for an answer, he imagined.

“Were you?” Dorian asked.

Fitzwilliam sat silently. He had come to see Dorian. Even had a handy excuse. The letter crinkled in his pocket. But did he say that, or admit the farce? Finally he nodded.

“A new threat to beat, I assume? Needed your best man?” The cocky smile was there, but there was something behind the eyes. If only Fitzwilliam’s head wasn’t so clouded by the wine. Perhaps then he could see. Fitzwilliam shook his head.

“Then what, your grace?”

Wordlessly, like the coward he was, Fitzwilliam pulled the letter from inside his vest pocket and handed it over. A letter from Magister Pavus. Dorian read it silently.

“Fuck. Him.” Dorian said in a low, voice full of dangerous calm. He crumpled the paper and tossed it to the fire. “’I know my son’? What my father knows of me could fill a thimble!”

“You don’t want to…” Fitzwilliam began his question, but Dorian cut him off.

“No.” He looked away. Anger and sadness and… shame colored his actions and words.

“Whatever happened, Dorian… I know you left home but…”

“But what?” The mage snapped and looked at the Inquisitor with steely eyes.

“But your father has gone to an awful lot of trouble. Don’t you think…” Again he was cut off.

“What? That he deserves to see me? I owe him that? He’s worth it?” Dorian stood up angrily and turned his back on him.

Fitzwilliam stood. “No, that’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean he was worth it, Dorian,” but the man could not let him finish a sentence.

Dorian turned around angrily, coming close, stepping over the tray. Fitzwilliam took a step back, but the man was still close as sin. “No? He’s not worth it? Then why?”

Fitzwilliam looked into the storm in those eyes, readied himself. He had battled archdemons. He could best Dorian Pavus’s stubborn streak. He put his hand on the mage’s bare arm, grasping it gently. “I meant _you_ are worth it, Doe.”

The tempest left Dorian’s eyes.

VVV

Dorian’s brain was having trouble processing everything. He hadn’t heard from his father in years. Fitzwilliam just dumped this on him and the rage had come on fast and hot. But what Fitz had said, the touch on his arm, the pleading in his eyes… What was the man thinking?

“Okay, I’ll… I meet the retainer,” Dorian sighed.

Fitzwilliam smiled. Maker, it was almost worth it just to see that smile directed at him. The softness of it. The crinkle at the corner of his brilliant blue eyes. There was no denying Dorian was attracted to the man. But that smile. That was more. That was… terrifying. Maker above, that? _That_ Dorian had to deny. Or lose himself.

“Tomorrow. We’ll go tomorrow,” was all Dorian said.

“And what shall we do tonight?” Fitzwilliam asked. They were still close, the Inquisitor’s hand still on him. The man had begun moving his thumb back and forth, caressing his bicep absentmindedly. The answer was on Dorian’s lips. But he was too cowardly. He went with levity instead.

“I hear there’s an archdemon to kill, perhaps we could pop that off before bed? Or a maybe just a dragon or two?” He smirked, Fitzwilliam laughed.

They fell back to the floor, talking of this and that, until the 12th bell chimed, and Dorian shuffled the Herald of Andraste off to bed. At the door to his chambers Fitzwilliam turned to face him. The lightness and easy laughter had vanished.

“Promise me you won’t stay up fretting all night,” he said.

“Hardly any night at all left, your grace,” Dorian smirked. Humor, always a good defense.

The inquisitor scowled. “Must I make it an order?” He said, somewhat unconvincingly.

“No,” Dorian sighed, still smiling softly, “I suppose you don’t.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, Dorian,” Fitzwilliam said, turning and opening his door. “No matter what happens I’ll be with you. We go together. Goodnight.”

The door closed. Dorian stared at it for a long moment, then turned and walked away. “But will we come back together?” He wondered aloud and shuffled to bed.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

 

Chapter 2

 

Fitzwilliam followed Dorian into the small Redcliffe tavern. It was quiet. Then Dorian spoke.

“Uh oh. No one’s here. This doesn’t bode well.”

Fitzwilliam was ready to say something along the lines of ‘well, let’s get an ale then’ when another voice filled the room.

“Dorian,” it said.

Dorian turned to face the stair. “Father,” he replied flatly. There was awkward silence for a moment, then Dorian said, “So the whole story about a family retainer was, what, a smoke screen?”

“Then you were told,” Magister Pavus addressed Fitzwilliam. “I apologize, Inquisitor, I never meant for you to be involved.”

“Of course not,” Dorian interrupted. “Magister Pavus couldn’t come to Skyhold and be seen with the dread Inquisitor! What would people think? What exactly is this, father? Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?” He spat the final word so vehemently that Fitzwilliam thought he might have mispronounced it.

Magister Pavus sighed, “This is how it has always been…”

Fitzwilliam had had enough. “Considering you lied to get him here, Dorian has every right to be furious.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dorian said, turning to look at him. He paused then said, “But maybe you _should_.”

The words obviously upset the Magister who cut in. “Dorian you don’t need to…”

“I prefer the company of men,” Dorian spat out before his father could finish. “My father disapproves.”

Fitzwilliam wasn’t sure what he was hearing. Because let’s face it, the last year had been proof enough that “The Herald of Andraste” wasn’t that lucky. “I….’ll need you to explain that,” he said. _Bumbling fool, you sound like an idiot._

“Did I stutter?” Dorian asked, clearly still angry, maybe even defensive. Surely he didn’t think this would change Fitzwilliam’s opinion of him. “Men. And the company thereof. As in sex. Surely you’ve heard of it.”

“I’ve more than heard of it, actually,” Fitzwilliam admitted.

“Noooo, the Herald of Andraste? I’m _shocked_ and _scandalized_ ,” Dorian scoffed.

“Such sarcasm,” Fitzwilliam said more confidently than he felt.

“You’re not exactly subtle, oh Lord Inquisitor,” Dorian said. His voice softened. He smiled a bit.

“I should have known that’s was what this was about,” Magister Pavus sighed.

Dorian turned like a whip. “No,” he growled. “You don’t get to make those assumptions. You know nothing about the Inquisitor.”

“This is not what I wanted,” Magister Pavus said sadly.

“I’m never what you wanted, father,” Dorian spat. “Or had you forgotten?”

“So,” Fitzwilliam intervened, “That’s a … concern in Tevinter, then?”

Dorian scoffed. “Only if you’re trying to live up to an impossible standard. Every Tevinter family is intermarrying to distill the perfect mage. Perfect body. Perfect mind. The perfect _leader_. It _means_ every perceived flaw, every aberration, is deviant and _shameful._ ” He turned back to his father. “It must be hidden.” His voice was full of indignation. Mocking. As if he had heard the words before. Magister Pavus had no words. He merely hung his head.

“That’s what this is about?” Fitzwilliam asked, incredulously. “Who you sleep with?”

“That’s not _all_ it’s about,” Dorian replied over his shoulder.

“Dorian, please,” Magister Pavus interrupted. “If you’ll only listen to me…”

“Why?” Dorian asked, approaching his father. “So you can spout more convenient lies? _He_ taught me to hate blood magic. ‘The resort of the weak mind’. Those are _his_ words.” Dorian took a few steps back, perhaps trying to calm down. To Fitzwilliam the mage was already a storm. “But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life?” He turned around then, and Fitzwilliam saw his face, the anguish there, before he wheeled on his father. “You tried to… _change_ me.”

“I only wanted what was best for you,” The Magister said.

It was the wrong thing to say. Dorian snapped. “You wanted the best for _you_! For your _fucking_ legacy.” His voice broke a little. “Anything for that.” He sounded more like a lost little boy than the powerful mage he was. He turned and walked to a nearby table. His back to Fitzwilliam. Fitz walked over beside him.

He stood there for a moment, silent. Dorian leaned against the table looking at the floor. “Don’t leave it like this, Dorian,” Fitzwilliam pleaded. Dorian looked up. His eyes were watery, his expression pained. “You’ll never forgive yourself,” he told the mage. Dorian looked at him, then at the floor again. After a long moment he nodded. Then the mage stood, straightened his coat, and strode over to meet his father.

“Tell me why you came,” Dorian demanded.

“If I knew I would drive you to the inquisition,” The Magister began, but Dorian cut him off angrily.

“You _didn’t_! I joined the inquisition because it’s the right thing to do. Once I had a father who would have known that,” he finished sadly and turned, walking toward the door. Fitzwilliam turned to follow but the pair stopped when Magister Pavus spoke.

“Once I had a son who trusted me, a trust I betrayed. I only wanted to talk to him. To hear his voice again. To ask him to forgive me.”

Dorian looked at Fitzwilliam, eyes full of hurt, fear, and a question. ‘Should I stay’, they said.

Fitzwilliam nodded. Dorian hesitated, but turned and walked toward his father.

The Inquisitor went the opposite direction – to the bar. He poured himself an ale, left generous payment on the counter, and waited in the far corner where he couldn’t hear well.

VVV

Dorian leaned against the frame of his favorite window, contemplating the meeting with his father. Fitzwilliam had been called to business as soon as they arrived, and Dorian had been unable to speak of it on their ride back. He had joked and made banter, but he dismissed any attempt to steer the conversation toward the Magister Pavus. It was all too much. The words, they were not what he had longed to hear, but they we not what he had feared either. And now… well now he was ready to talk, just a little. If only The Herald would grace him with his presence.

It wasn’t long until footsteps caused his head to turn slightly, enough to see who approached from the corner of his eye. It seemed the Maker had been listening after all – Fitzwilliam walked up behind him. He was watching Dorian look out that window. _I suppose I must say something_.

“He said we’re alike,” the mage sighed. “Too much pride. Once I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now I’m not certain.” Even to his own ears Dorian sounded like he was floundering. “I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

“He tried to change you?” Fitzwilliam asked bluntly. Dorian smiled just a bit at the way he said it. The Inquisitor could be dreadfully clever, even keep up with Dorian most of the time. But when it was serious? Well, the man did not bother with cleverness then.

“Out of desperation. I wouldn’t put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory and private locked away.” He shrugged. “Selfish, I suppose – not wanting to spend my entire life _screaming_ on the inside. He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me… ‘acceptable’,” he snarled. “I found out. I left.” He looked out the window.

“Can blood magic actually _do_ that?” The Inquisitor asked innocently.

“Maybe,” Dorian answered honestly. “It could have also left me a drooling vegetable. It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal. Part of me has always hoped he didn’t want to go through with it. If he had,” Dorian paused under the weight of that idea. “I can’t even imagine the person I would be now. I… I don’t think I’d like that Dorian.”

“Are you alright?” Fitzwilliam asked. His usually confident voice was tinged with… concern, perhaps.

“No,” Dorian answered taking one last look out the window. “Not really.” He turned, facing Fitzwilliam properly. The Herald of Andraste. “Thank you,” he said finally, as sincerely as he could muster. “For bringing me out there. It wasn’t what I expected but… it’s something.” It was _something_. Dorian had behaved like the hurt child his father had created. He’d been rude to Fitz, who obviously cared only for Dorian’s well-being. Maker, what must the man think of him now? Dorian shrugged inwardly, why not ask. It had already been a day of asking hard questions. What was one more? “Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display.” Dorian smiled softly. A bit forced, perhaps a bit insecure, but it would have to do.

“I don’t think less of you,” Fitzwilliam said with that little half-smile of amusement. “More if possible.”

Dorian felt his face crumple, unable to hide the emotion that coursed through him with those simple words. His eyes became watery, his smile uninhibited. It wasn’t a large smile, but it also hid nothing. He felt hope, forbidden hope, flutter to the forefront. And for a moment he could be nothing but himself. “The things you say.”

“I mean it,” Fitzwilliam replied quickly. For a moment Dorian thought he might be drunk again.

Dorian paused for a moment, he needed to reign himself in, he needed to explain. “My father never understood,” he said. He paused for a moment, but the mask would not come. Fitzwilliam would see Dorian Pavus, scars, fears, and all. Unfiltered. “Living a lie, it festers inside you like poison. You have to _fight_ for what’s in your _heart_.”

“I agree,” Fitzwilliam said and Dorian smiled. He noticed too late that the man was walking forward, that he, Dorian the bold, was moving away, by reflex, until his back hit the window. The Inquisitor, Fitzwilliam Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste pressed close to him, resting his forehead against the mage’s, and kissed him. It was soft, and slow, and it… lingered. Dorian felt like a boy of sixteen. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. One briefly went to Fitzwilliam’s hair, the other to his shoulder. Then both rested on the Inquisitor’s shoulders holding him close.

When the kiss ended they stayed close. Dorian felt… _giddy_. “I see you like to play with fire, Inquisitor,” he drawled, a smile stretching his face so far it hurt. Fitzwilliam said nothing, merely smiled. “At any rate, time to drink myself into a stupor. It’s been that sort of day. Join me, sometime, if you have a mind.”

Dorian walked past the Inquisitor, fingers gently tracing his lips, smiling. He could still feel Fitzwilliam’s kiss there. He headed to the tavern, replaying the whole event. “Maker help me,” he muttered, grinning like a fool.

VVV

Perhaps it had been a bit early in the day to drink.

Dorian had been sitting in a dark, but warm corner, for over an hour. None of his companions were around yet. Which was fine by him. After several glasses of wine, which he could basically only drink when alone because Maker knew if he ordered a round for Sera it would end up on his head, he had come to the conclusion that he needed some time to think about where things were going with the Inquisitor. Well, _realistically_ , going. Dreams, he had learnt long ago, were lovely and all, but best put aside. There was no “and they lived happily to the end of their days” as the Ferelden folk tales said. Luckily for him, Dorian had grown up on the Tevinter myths – all blood, sex, tricksters and “if you survived you’re happy enough”. No, Dorian needed to decide what he could expect, realistically from this.

His feelings so far, while intense, were not irreversible. But his father had been right. Someday Dorian would be head of House Pavus. And then what? Perhaps Fitzwilliam would be willing to join their houses in a strictly legal manner. That was possible. The men could be seen as close friends, confidants. In Tevinter it was not unusual for men of great houses to… have liaisons. They would have to keep up public appearances, however. Marry the girl. Have the heir. Pass on the birthright. Even the thought of it made him grit his teeth.

 _Maker above._ He sighed inwardly as he gulped his wine. _Am I ever getting ahead of myself. That’s when this is all over, if we want to stay together after that. If we even get together._ Still, he needed to have a reasonable goal so he could work backward from that. Perhaps Fitzwilliam just wanted something… fun. Dorian could do fun. As long as he reigned in his feelings soon. It was unwise to let them go as far as he had. Of course, he could hardly be blamed for that! He’d hardly noticed until it was too late. But no, he could go back. He could be reasonable. As long as the man was not _too_ tempting.

He chuckled into his glass and sipped again. Moderation. That was key. In love as with wine. _Love._ The word burned in his mind. He often fooled himself into thinking what he meant by love was support. A friend who could be relied upon. It was not the love that spouses shared. He could not expect that. But it would be enough. If he had that, and passion, he would be lucky. Luckier, indeed than he had ever dared dream.

“And then I crushed his skull!” Iron Bull plowed through the tavern door. Well, he had to stoop and twist to get his horns through, but there was no mistaking him. He was followed by Varric and Sera. They looked like they had just returned from some mission or another. Had Fitzwilliam gone out? Dorian thought he’d been in the war room. The Inquisitor rarely went on missions without taking the mage. He felt slighted.

But the trio had spotted him. He plastered on a smile, waving them over, and then motioned to the tavern keeper. He’d long ago established a series of gestures with the man for the beverages he wanted. It was essential to not having to interact with too many people in the tavern. Telling the keeper to bring enough for the table whole was as simple as a flick of the wrist. _I wonder what the Elves think of us calling barmen ‘keepers’,_ he wondered randomly. The keeper nodded and drinks arrived with the rest of the party. Ales, on Dorian.

Taking a drink Iron Bull laughed, “Good, I needed some water. Later, mage, I will buy you a drink to put chest on your chest!”

Dorian smiled devilishly at the Qunari. “Why bother with the drink. There’s bound to be a more efficient method of getting a chest on my chest.” He winked. Iron Bull stared. Sure, Dorian had had a few wines. And sure, he knew that the Qunari were more… enlightened about sex than most. But he also knew Iron Bull could pick him up by his head with a single hand. And that Dorian and he had never really… gotten along. Okay, they bickered. Dorian did not like him. The man did, after all, belong to a nation which had been slaughtering Dorian’s compatriots for hundreds of years. Perhaps Dorian’s less than cutting remark had merely shocked him into uncharacteristic silence. Or he was about to crush him. His reaction would be telling, one way or the other.

A loud laugh split the room and Bull thumped his tankard on the table. Maker’s breath, it left a ring in the wood. 

“So…” Dorian began. This was, after all, new territory. And he was going to navigate it while well-wined. “They’re the chargers and you’re the Bull. That’s clever.”

Iron Bull called for another drink. “Worked that out on your own did you?” He smiled a little. “You have to keep the name simple so the nobles get it. They pay us to fight. Not to entertain at tea.”

Dorian laughed then, and drank the dreadful ale. “ _That_ ,” he said, mused, “I’d like to see.”

 

VVV

It turned out, after hours of war room meetings, Fitzwilliam _did_ have a mind to join Dorian at the tavern. He wasn’t sure if the man was still there, but a drink was in order. Something brewed, down to earth. The mulled wines in the castle were all very fine, but Fitzwilliam needed something …

“Strong and dirty!” He heard as he entered the tavern.

“Good lord, Sera,” Dorian was saying. He sat at table in the corner with Sera and Varric and an astonishing number of empty mugs.

Fitzwilliam sat in the empty seat between Dorian and Varric. “What’s this then?” He asked. Dorian did not turn to great him. He merely looked into his mug as if the bottom was eluding him. In fact, he hadn’t looked right at Fitzwilliam since he entered.

“Dear Sera,” Dorian said, “was explaining what she likes about Iron Bull. She has, however, conveniently waited until Bull went to chat up...” Dorian looked about the room then gestured, “Ah, that strapping gentleman.”

“Ew,” Sera slurred. “Don say ‘dear’ an’at! Sound like that fancy-pants sorceress!”

Fitzwilliam was sure he saw Dorian smirk into his mug. “Whatever you say, dear. Your wish is my command.”

Sera scowled, “I’ma let that go, Sparkler, because you bought this round.”

“I bought all the rounds!” Dorian protested, smiling. “And only Varric can call me Sparkler.” He winked at the Dwarf.

Varric nodded gruffly, then stood. “C’mon Sera,” he said, “I know a spot of trouble we can get into with the court.” The girl giggled gleefully and they scurried away.

“Just the two of us now,” Fitzwilliam ventured. Dorian upended his mug and drank until it was empty. Fitz chuckled and reached up, flicking foam off the mage’s illustrious mustache.

“Hardly, we’re in a room full of people,” Dorian said. His eyes were glazed. “Drunk people.”

“Of which you appear to be one,” Fitzwilliam joked. The Inquisitor poked about the tankards on the table until he found one full of a dark ale. He took a long, slow, pull that emptied it half way. Then he let out a long belch. “Maker above, I needed that,” he declared.   

“Bet that’s not all you need, “Dorian slurred. Undoubtedly, the mage thought it was quiet, but it was very near a yell.

“Dorain!” Fitzwilliam reprimanded.

“What?” The mage asked. “I’m just thinking aloud.”

“Well think, a-quiet,” The Inquisitor joked. Dorian rolled his eyes. “Can we go talk?” Fitzwilliam asked tentatively.

“I am, as you say down south, ‘all-ears’!” Dorian declared, attempting to take another swig from his empty mug. The man stood, wobbled and laughed. Fitzwilliam pulled him back into the chair.

“ _Alone_ ,” he whispered.

“Oh… ‘I need to speak with you’. Okay.” Dorian chuckled.

The two stood and walked from the tavern toward the Hall and Fitzwilliam’s quarters.

“I know what this is,” Dorian whispered as they walked. “You don’t have to worry.”

“What are you…” Fitzwilliam began.

“No, no, it’s okay. You don’t have to spare my feelings, Amatus, I’m no stranger to this.” Dorian slurred as they entered Fitzwilliam’s quarters – through the servant’s stair. If the lords and ladies of the court saw _this_ display!

“Amatus? What does that, I don’t know what that means…” he turned around to find Dorian flopped on his bed.

“I am ready for you, Inquisitor!” He shouted, laughing.

“Good lord, Dorian, keep it down!” Fitzwilliam closed his door and rushed to the bed. “How much _did_ you have to drink? You sounded perfectly coherent with Sera.”

“My mug was full of something Bull brought over,” the mage confessed looking up from his place on his back.

“Maker, and you finished it just like that?” Fitzwilliam was legitimately alarmed.

“I’ll be fiiiiiiine,” Dorian laughed. Fitzwilliam pulled the mage until he was sitting up, then knelt on his haunches before him. A precarious position, were the mage to sick.

“You had better be,” he said looking up into Dorian’s eyes.

“Why?” Dorian asked, coy.

“Because one kiss does not fulfill my desire to kiss you, Doe,” Fitzwilliam said honestly. Well perhaps a shade less than honestly. There was more to it than that.

Dorian’s face became soft, no longer playful, his smile was genuine. It shone. “You called me that before,” he said wonderingly.

“What?” Fitzwilliam asked. “Doe?” The mage nodded softly. “It’s just an… endearment.”

Dorian smiled wider, tears pooling in his eyes. “Just like that,” he said with amazement. “So simple. As if it is nothing to…”

“To what? Show affection for a lush of a mage?” Fitzwilliam joked, reaching up and touching Dorian’s cheek.

The mage closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “Yes, as if it is nothing to be affectionate. It’s just natural for you, isn’t it?”

Fitzwilliam considered this for a moment. “You are sure to make fun of me, Dorian, but yes. Being with you is the most natural thing in the world.”

Dorian’s tears fell, landing in hot splashes on Fitzwilliam’s knee. “My father,” he said sadly, “he still does not understand.” And then it was all coming out in a rush. “He took back his angry words. I thought he’d disowned me when I left. Considering the ‘Get out! You are no son of mine!’ remark it seemed a reasonable assumption. But… I am still his heir. I will still be expected to take over when he is gone. I… I told him to find someone new. There’s a precedent for adopting a worthy heir. But he said I was his son. But I will be expected to marry, Fitz. Have heirs of my own. Live the lie. And if I have to do that I…” he stood abruptly, breaking contact. Fitzwilliam fell backward and had to catch himself on his hands.

The Inquisitor stood quickly and grabbed Dorian, made him look at him. The mage wanted to bolt, he knew. He would not let him. “Say it, Dorian.”

“If I have to do that, I can’t do this,” his whispered and then choked back a sob.

Fitzwilliam pulled him into a close embrace. Dorian struggled weakly, his heart was not in it. Fitzwilliam smoothed the hair against the back of the mage’s head. Comfort. Reassurance. These were the things he tried to convey via touch. Finally, the mage settled and Fitzwilliam pulled back to look at him. “Those are worries for future Dorian, you fool.” He brushed the mage’s hair lightly. “And whatever those choices may be you don’t have to make them alone.”

Dorian looked at him, sudden clarity in his eyes. “Why?”

“I’ve heard it said for every price and every penance, it’s better to have fallen in love than never to have fallen at all,” Fitzwilliam whispered.

“I want to mock your cliché, Inquisitor, but I rather think you mean it.” Dorian smiled softly.

“You won’t remember in the morning anyway,” Fitzwilliam laughed and kissed him sweetly.

“Oh yes, I _will_ ,” Dorian insisted.

Fitzwilliam laughed and pulled him to rest beside him in the bed. “I doubt that.”

“You’ll see, _your grace_ ,” Dorian said with a smile. “I am a mage who can hold his drink!”

“Well then,” Fitzwilliam chuckled. “You hold your drink. I shall hold you.”

When they awoke in the morning, wrapped around one another, fully clothed, on top of the still-made bed Dorian had _Things_ to say. He made many a snarky remark about Fitzwilliam taking him to bed.

But the Inquisitor had been right – he did not remember the kiss. He did not remember Fitzwilliam’s words.

Not even the cliché.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

 

Chapter 3

Dorian was nothing if not amused.

The Revered Mother Giselle clearly had her concerns. And Dorian was at a place now where holding his tongue seemed like it would deny him a _great deal_ of amusement. “Now you know, I don’t like to interfere,” the woman was saying. Dorian nodded politely. “But the things people are saying, Master Pavus, they simply will not do. Now I know your father visited. Can you not go back home?”

“So you know of that.” There was a smile in her eyes. “Oh, I see. It was you who passed the letter on to his worship. Bit of a gossip monger for a woman of the chantry, aren’t you?” Dorian drawled pleasantly. Well, mock- pleasantly.

Mother Giselle sighed, exasperated. Good. “The chantry has a long history of discovering secrets,” she replied calmly.

“I assure you, Mother, there is no secret to discover.” That one hurt a little. They’d had a single kiss, after all. _And_ woken up in bed together fully clothed. What type of man did such a thing? In Dorian’s experience? One who wasn’t really interested. Sure, Fitzwilliam had kissed _him_. But that was precious little. Perhaps he had not found it to his liking. And the man was _so_ busy. They could go days without a quiet moment alone. They could not always go about kissing in public alcoves. Word _would_ fly then.

The blight-forsaken woman was still talking. He’d tuned her out but something filtered through.

“…undue influence over the Inquisitor will not be tolerated.” She huffed.

Dorian held up a hand. “Stop,” he growled suddenly. She’d found them. Just the words he was most afraid to hear. He was not _using_ Fitzwilliam. Fitzwilliam was not a thing to be used. So many people were using him already, it made him sick to think of it. The rage bubbled inside him. The _temptation_ to unleash the magic racing through his veins. It would take a single moment of weakness.

But he heard footsteps just then and the Revered Mother startled, “Oh!”

Fitzwilliam walked up beside him. The rage cooled and Dorian crossed his arms. _This will be good_.

“What’s going on here,” Fitzwilliam asked looking between the mage and the Mother.

“It seems,” Dorian began before the woman could speak, “the revered Mother is concerned about my ‘undue influence’ over you.” The words stung his lips like a particularly vile curse.

“It _is_ just concern, your worship,” she said calmly. What was it about church women and their ability to feign calm? “You must know how this looks.”

“You might need to spell it out, my dear,” Dorian replied. Fitzwilliam would want the blunt edge of it. Or as much of that as you could get out of a member of the chantry.

“This man is of Tevinter. His presence at your side. The rumors alone…” Giselle trailed off, not wanting to be too direct, naturally. Better to let Fitzwilliam fill in the rumors himself, yes?

But Dorian smiled. If he knew one thing about the Inquisitor, and he liked to think he knew at least one, it was that he would ask and prod and poke until he had the full of it. Fitzwilliam did not disappoint. “And what’s wrong with him being from Tevinter?” He asked. “Specifically.” There was an edge to his voice Dorian doubted the Mother could hear. But Dorian caught it. Bigotry in any form was _not_ an attitude Fitzwilliam tolerated. Just look at the team he had assembled!

The Mother back peddled. Perhaps she _had_ caught the tone. Dorian was not giving the woman enough credit. “I am fully aware,” she began diplomatically, “that not everyone from the Imperium is the same.”

Maker, if she thought that was worth anything. “How kind of you to notice,” Dorian drawled. “Yet, you still bow to the opinion of the masses.” Dorian was familiar with prejudice. He didn’t have it as badly as Qunari with their grey skin and horns. Or Elves. Most of the time he could pass, just a human who had spent some time in the sun. But it was still painful.

“The opinion of the masses,” Giselle countered, “is based on _centuries_ of evidence. What would you have me tell them?” She looked… _smug_. Maker, woman. Dorian knew what Fitzwilliam would have her tell them. It was a simple truth, one Iron Bull, of all people, had articulated well one night in the tavern: treat a person like a person.

“The truth?” Dorian suggested instead, too annoyed to have a philosophical conversation.

“”The truth is I do not know you,” She replied to the mage. “And neither do they. Thus, these rumors will continue.” Andraste help him why was Fitz just standing there watching?

“Oh? I’d like to hear what these rumors are, exactly,” Fitzwilliam said at last. His voice was an odd mix, to Dorian’s ears. Part amusement, part severity.

That took the Mother by surprise. _Good._ “I…” she fumbled. “I could not repeat them, your worship.” She looked away.

“Repeat them?” He asked with the cunning wit Dorian adored. “So you’ve shared them before?”

“I…” the Mother began. But then she stopped, defeated. “I see. I meant no disrespect Inquisitor.”

 _Did she see_ , Dorian wondered. _Really_ see?

“I only meant to ask after this man’s… intentions.” She finished. _Ah._ “If you feel he is without ulterior motive, then I humbly beg forgiveness of you both.”

Dorian crossed and uncrossed his arms. Clever little Hat, she was. She didn’t _mean_ her apology to Dorian, of course, but including him with one to the Inquisitor? Well, that was easily done and would save her some face. Dorian rolled his eyes, when the Mother bowed and walked away… the look she gave him before she turned. _Maker help me,_ he thought. _I do believe that woman has my number._

“Well, that’s something,” Dorian sighed, looking after the woman.

Fitzwilliam turned to him. “She didn’t get to you, did she?”

 _Yes._ He thought. But he said, “No…” confidently. “It takes more to get to me than thinly veiled accusations.”

“You don’t think she’ll do anything?” Fitzwilliam asked.

Dorian scoffed. “Do what? Yours is the good opinion I care about, not hers.” He paused for a moment, unsure. “It does make me wonder – _is_ my influence over you… _undue?”_

The Inquisitor shook his head and smiled. “No, not _undue_ at all.”

Dorian smiled. “Overdue, then?” The Herald shook his head, still smiling that little smile. Dorian laughed. “I know, I tease you too much.” He smiled dangerously and said, “I don’t know if you’re aware, but the assumption in some corners is that you and I are… intimate.” Dorian smirked and waited to gauge the Inquisitor’s reaction.

“That’s not the worst assumption they could have, is it? Fitzwilliam said calmly.

Dorian was surprised. He felt his eyebrows go up. “I don’t know,” he began to banter out of reflex. “Is it?”

“Do you always answer a question with a question?” Maker above. There was a reason he was the Inquisitor, after all.

“Would you like me to answer in some other fashion?” Dorian smirked again.

Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes and chuckled. “If you’re capable.”

It was a joke, Dorian knew, but he felt the challenge of it. His conversation with the Mother had him wounded and wondering. Uncertain as to his place in Fitzwilliam’s life. And there was only one way he could think of to easy the roiling emotions.

Dorian took two confident strides forward, grabbed Fitzwilliam by his arm, pulled him in, and kissed him deeply. It started so strong but toward the end it dissolved into softness. When they parted Fitzwilliam kept his eyes closed and sighed happily. “’If you’re capable’,” Dorian scoffed affectionately. “The nonsense you speak.”

Fitzwilliam stayed close, smiling softly, glancing around the empty alcove. “You realize,” he joked, “this makes the rumors somewhat true.” A thumb stroked Dorian’s hip. When had the man put his hand there? _Maker, that feels nice._

“Evidently,” Dorian replied. He heard voices. They would not be alone much longer. Regretfully, the mage stepped away from Fitzwilliam, his touch lingering on the man’s arm. “We might have to explore the full truth of them later,” he said and turned away. “In private,” he added.

 _Well, that answers that_ , he thought. He smiled and hummed all the way to the tavern.

VVV

Fitzwilliam regretted everything.

“Why did I agree to this?” He asked Dorian as he walked beside him.

Dorian shrugged, and smirked. “I believe your reasoning had to do with taking Cole out to test the waters.”

Fitzwilliam huffed. That was true. He’d accepted the “go find us resources because, by Andraste, you aren’t busy enough” request, at least in part, because it seemed a safe way to take Cole on a mission. They were unlikely to run into too many dangers but with luck he would see what Cole could do. And if it turned out it was very little? Well, then he and Dorian would be able to pull them out. “I need to learn to delegate,” he mumbled. Dorian laughed.

“Can you change your form, Cole?” Dorian asked. “If you wanted to look like something else?”

The boy looked up from his close inspection of the ground. “But I _don’t_ want to look like something else,” he replied, clearly confused.

“There are Magisters who would be ecstatic if they could conjure up a demon who could change how it looked,” He mused aloud.

“They would use it to hurt people,” Cole said, disdainfully.

“You’re right about that,” Dorian acquiesced. “They would.”

Fitzwilliam watched the exchange with something like glee. He’d known Dorian was curious about the spirit. And he knew Cole needed people he could talk to. People like Dorian. People who did not see him as an abomination.

“Do you need to eat? Or sleep?” Dorian asked.

“I thought I had to, but I don’t. The old songs can pull me,” Cole said by way of explanation.

“Well,” Dorian said, encouragingly. “That’s something! I don’t know what, but it’s something. What about when you’re injured? Why do you bleed? Is it because you think you have to?”

“Is that why you bleed?” Cole asked innocently.

“I, well, uh… yes,” Dorian sputtered. “You have me there,” he added with a chuckle.

They walked in silence a few minutes more. Dorian stroking his chin, Cole looking about, taking it all in. Fitzwilliam watching, while trying to look like he wasn’t watching.

Cole spoke again. “You ask a lot of questions, Dorian.”

“I’m curious about you,” the mage answered with a smile. “I had no idea something like _you_ was possible.”

“I’m curious about you too!” Cole exclaimed excitedly.

“You can ask me questions if you like,” Dorian replied helpfully. Fitzwilliam’s heart was melting. Is this what the mage would be like with a child? _Andraste’s ass, you fool. Why would you think a thing like that?_ He felt the blush creep up his cheeks. Thank the Maker, neither of his companions were paying attention. “I’m not sure why you’d want to but…”

“Oh good!” Cole smiled. “Thank you!”

Dorian turned and looked at the Inquisitor. “I’m… going to regret this, aren’t I?” He asked with a nervous smile. Fitzwilliam shrugged and tried to hide the red of his face. Perhaps the mage would shrug it off as the color of exertion?

Despite Cole’s enthusiasm he did not ask any questions. They arrived at the small town to find it in a skirmish with some bandits. They were easily scattered, the Inquisition flag hoisted, and the band on their way back to Skyhold before Cole said a word. When he did Fitzwilliam saw Dorian jump.

“Dorian, you said I could ask you questions.”

“It’s true, I did say that,” he sighed warily.

“Why did you leave your home, Dorian?” Cole asked.  Fitzwilliam was surprised. It was a fairly mundane question.

“You know why,” Dorian replied casually. “I had to stop the Venatori.”

“It was more,” Cole said slowly, as if looking for the answer in Dorian’s head. “There was the man with your eyes. Angry. Walking on cobblestones.  ‘I’m on my own now…’”

“Digging around in my head again, are you?” Dorian said with a small smile.

“You said I could ask questions!” The spirit-boy protested.

Dorian sighed. “Ugh. It’s rather like inviting someone into your house and they walk off with the silverware.”

Apparently Cole did not take the mage’s meaning because without pause he continued his questions. “Why are you so angry at your father?” Cole asked innocently. Blight take him, couldn’t he have picked something smaller? But no. Dorian’s relationship with his father was something that caused the mage a great deal of hurt. Of course he would start there. Fitzwilliam had been a fool not to see it coming. “He wants to help, and you know he does but…”

“I’m not certain I can explain it to you,” Dorian said calmly.

“You love him, but you’re angry,” Cole continued, tilting his head this way and that, as if trying to put broken pieces back together. Trying to see where this shard or that fit. “They mix together, boiling in the belly until it kneads into a knot.”

“Sometimes,” Dorian started. Fitzwilliam saw him swallow hard and start again. “Sometimes love isn’t enough, Cole.” The words made Fitzwilliam’s heart sink. Dorian had been hurt, so deeply. Not just by his father. No matter how much people loved him, none of them had accepted him. Love was not enough.

“Love isn’t enough?” Cole repeated, confused. “Enough what?”

Dorian was quiet for a long time. Cole had been quiet too. Fitzwilliam thought maybe the boy had enough sense, but it seemed he had just been pondering. Trying to find an answer. When he spoke it was clear he had not found it. “You didn’t explain, Dorian,” he said.

“I was rather hoping I had,” the mage sighed.

“His face in the stands,” Cole said in the dreamy voice that was the tell-tale sign that he was reciting a memory. “Watching as I pass the test. So proud, there’s tears in his eyes. Anything to make him happy. _Anything._ ” Cole blinked and resumed in his normal voice, “Why isn’t that true anymore?”

Dorian was crying. His voice came out wavering and choked, flooded with emotion, “Cole, this…” He paused. When he began again his voice was hard. “This is not the sort of discussion for walking around. Please drop it.”

“I’m hurting you, Dorian,” Cole said, realization coloring his tone. “Words, winding, wanting, wounding. You _said_ I could ask.”

“I know I did,” Dorian replied, voice thick with emotion. “The things you ask are just… very personal.”

“But, it hurts,” Cole insisted. “I want to help. But it’s all tangled with the love. I can’t tug it lose without tearing it. You hold him so tightly. You let it keep hurting because you think hurting is who you are. Why would you do that?”

Dorian, it seemed, had had enough. “Can you tell him to stop? Banish him back to the fade, or something.”

Fitzwilliam wanted to ease Dorian’s burden. But no. Dorian would never heal if he kept running. He had left Tevinter and never stopped. Never found a safe place. Maybe this could be it. “Cole want’s to help you, Dorian,” the Inquisitor said. “Maybe you should let him.”

The march stopped. “Marvelous,” Dorian groaned, spinning in a frustrated circle. “Everyone’s _so_ helpful.”

“I’m sorry,” Cole said at last. “I keep making it worse.” The boy looked at the ground. He looked pained. Fitzwilliam thought he might cry.

“No,” Dorian said, putting an arm on the boy’s shoulder. “ _I’m_ sorry. Of course you don’t understand. Just… leave me with it, for now.” Cole nodded and walked on.

Fitzwilliam grabbed Dorian’s arm, letting the boy get a slight lead. He’d seen him with those daggers, he’d be fine until they caught up. Dorian looked up at him. Fitzwilliam could see the tears there, rivulets marking his dusty face. The Inquisitor lifted a hand and rested it on Dorian’s cheek. His thumb smoothed across it, smudging the marks. Dorian smiled. A sad half-quirk of the lips. “You,” Fitzwilliam said with all the sincerity and affection he could pour into the words, “are a remarkable man, Dorian Pavus.”

Dorian tried valiantly to smirk. He almost managed it. “Naturally,” he replied.

“I wish I could do more,” Fitzwilliam sighed. Dorian shrugged. “I mean it.” Dorian nodded gently. “What can I do?”

When Dorian looked at him Fitzwilliam could see the longing there. And the fear. The mage’s mouth worked silently for a moment, then he dropped his eyes. Whatever he’d wanted to say… well he’d decided against it. When he looked back up his face looked pained. Like the request on his lips was hard to utter. He said, “Kiss…” Fitzwilliam was kissing him before he could finish the request. The “me” became muffled between them. The kiss was… different. The passion was there, but it was low, steady. Something… _more._ When they parted both men were winded, hearts pounding.

“When we get back,” Fitzwilliam sighed, resting his forehead against Dorain’s, “I need to talk with you.”

“Ah….” Dorian replied. “ _Talk._ Yes, of course.” Some of his humor had returned. Fitzwilliam chuckled softly.

“Inquisitor,” Cole was calling.

“Best get back to it,” Dorian said with a smile. Fitzwilliam nodded and they jogged to catch up to Cole. Scenery passed in moderate silence until Skyhold was in sight. Fitzwilliam thought he might kiss the portcullis. His feet ached. His stomach grumbled. And he needed a wet rag and some hot water. But the end was in sight, and for that he was grateful.

“I’ve been trying to imagine how to explain it to you, Cole,” Dorian said. Fitzwilliam was surprised. He thought the mage would avoid continuing the conversation, but it seemed he’d been wrong. Perhaps he was merely looking to see it through before they were _in_ Skyhold, with its many, many ears. “The thing is, sometimes the ones you love are also the ones who disappoint you the most. You think that if they love you, they should understand. They shouldn’t want to hurt you,” he continued sadly. “So you feel betrayed… You say things you can’t ever take back.”

“Get out,” Cole growled in a low dangerous voice. The party stopped. Fitzwilliam stood in shock. Dorian? Dorian looked like he was seeing a ghost. “You are no son of _mine_.”

Dorian blinked back tears. “Yes,” he said. And his voice was profoundly sad. “Like that.”

“He wishes he hadn’t meant it,” Cole said.

And then they walked into Skyhold proper. And no one said another word.


	4. Interludes

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 4

_When we get back, I need to talk with you_.The words rolled around in Dorian’s head. What was he to think of that? Sometimes, when the inquisitor asked to talk he wanted to be alone, to spend time with Dorian. Other times he needed to vent about proceedings in the war room or ask Dorian’s opinion. Or even exchange gossip. But this time? Dorian suspected it would be slightly more serious. _Maker help me._

He sat in his small room. It was a perfectly serviceable room. It had a hearth, a reasonably comfortable bed, a chair that was ugly as sin, but soft and good for reading in. Could have been warmer, better decorated, perhaps, but he had had far worse accommodations in the last several years. Not that it was hard to beat a barn or tavern room.  Fitzwilliam had never come here. They met in the library, the tavern, or snuck into the Inquisitors rooms. Dorian sipped a brandy and tried not to think about that. Surely Fitzwilliam would summon him when he was ready, not come here. They’d parted to wash the travel-dust from their faces. Dorian had done so and changed out of his armor.

He swirled the glass, letting it catch the light of the fire. _Moderation_. He reminded himself. He wanted to drink until he didn’t feel anymore, after the events of the day. _Moderation. Don’t give in to temptation._ He called on his training as a mage. On the knowledge that temptation would always be there. On the knowledge that giving in meant death, possession, loss of self. It was always the last that got through to him. He had fought hard to keep what made him _him._ Left home, everything he knew. Besides, Fitzwilliam needed to talk to him. Dorian would need his full wits. The man was clever.

  1. The thought came unbidden and Dorian frowned.



The knock at the door startled him and he jumped, sloshing his drink. “Come,” he called, licking the amber brown liquid from his hand. He heard the Inquisitor laugh. Dorian looked up, mock-scowling. Fitzwilliam closed the door behind him.

“You can’t be that hard up for a drink, Dorian,” he ribbed. There was only the one chair in his room, so Dorian stood, placed the glass on the mantle and turned to face Fitzwilliam.

“Have you any idea how hard it was to find a half-decent brandy? I had to raid the storeroom!” Dorian protested. “I’m not going to waste a Single. Drop.” Innuendo dripped from his lips as he licked his finger. Apparently he was set on distraction. 

Fitzwilliam chuckled. “I’ll have to do my best to supply better, then.”

Dorian pouted inwardly. _So much for distraction_. “Well,” the mage said, “best get down to it.”

Fitzwilliam lost his smile. His face became dark, serious. _Shit_. “Dorian,” he said, “what are your intentions after the Inquisition?”

Dorian blinked. Hard. Twice. “I’m sorry?” He said finally.

“If you… if we survive this, what will you do? Will you return home, now that you and your father are… whatever you are?” The Inquisitor clarified.

“I… I hadn’t thought about it,” Dorian lied. 

“I have,” Fitzwilliam said. “Doiran, I…” he sighed running a hand through his hair. “I’m worried about you.”

Dorian blinked again. “Worried about me?” He tried to shrug it off, playfully. “I am, as always, fabulous, Fitzwilliam.”

Fitzwilliam scowled at him. “I’m serious, Dorian. You… you’re a bit of fluff in a breeze. You go wherever life takes you. You ran from home and you haven’t stopped.” Dorian looked at the floor, but said nothing. “I am afraid that without a tether, without a place you belong… you won’t survive what’s coming.”

Dorian laughed, bitterly. “You’re one to talk. You’ve nearly died, what, half a dozen times?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Fitzwilliam admitted. He walked over and touched Dorian’s hand lightly. “But there are reasons I come back, Dorian. Reasons I don’t simply give in under the strain, the despair, the darkness that threatens to pull me under.” Dorian couldn’t look at him.

“I…” Dorian started. He hated how weak his voice sounded. “I have not the strength to go back home, Fitzwilliam.”

The Inquisitor pulled him closer, embracing him, and Dorian could not stop the tears. He hated them. He hated appearing weak in front of a man who commanded armies, wrapped rulers around his fingers, and fought demons. And here he was now helping others fight theirs. But he sobbed anyway. When they parted, Fitzwilliam handed him a handkerchief. There was nothing graceful about the way Dorian wiped his face and blew his nose. He looked up to see Fitzwilliam’s smile. _Maker give me strength._

“You said you don’t have the strength to go back home,” Fitzwilliam said. The man was not going to give him a break, was he? Dorian tucked the handkerchief into his pocket and nodded slightly, urging Fitzwilliam to continue. “What makes a place a home?”

Dorian furrowed his brow. “That’s a strange question,” he said. “Home is Tevinter. Home is where my family is.”

Fitzwilliam nodded. “I have a somewhat different definition,” he said. “I think home is where you feel safe. Where you can go when the weight of the world is crushing you.”

Dorian smiled a sad smile. “That was true of my father’s house, once.”

“For me, Dorian, wherever I am, as long as I am with people I care for, people I can trust, not just trust not to hurt me, but trust to be honest, _that_ is home. That is where I want to be.” He stopped then and placed a hand on Dorian’s neck. He could feel the warmth radiating from the Herald’s palm, spreading through his body, driving away the cold and the ache. Was it the mark that did it? “When this is over,” he said, looking intently into Dorian’s eyes, trying to tell him something beyond the words. “The _place_ in the world I end up? That won’t matter to me. I’ll go wherever home is.”

Dorian tried to understand what he was saying. The warmth made him relax, let him _feel_ something. “Are you trying to tell me…” hope bubbled up in him. He squashed it out of reflex. “I understand your warning, your worship.” He pulled away from Fitzwilliam. The warm vanished, the cold set in. He turned his back and stood by the fire, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

“Dorian,” Fitzwilliam said, frustrated. “You are a brilliant mage. A scholar. You understand people and power in a way I admire and appreciate. But, Maker take you! You are a fool when it comes to yourself.”

The mage turned, angry. “And you are the expert on me, Inquisitor?”

Fitzwilliam’s eyes widened in surprise. “No, of course not I…”

“ _You_ hardly know me,” Dorian finished for him. “You take me to see my father and you think you know the pain I have suffered. You think you know what makes me _me_. Well, _your worship_ , I’m telling you, you do _not_ know.” _Relenus._

Fitzwilliam hung his head. Dorian had wounded him. “I…” he said walking over to touch him. Touching him always helped. “I’m sorry, Fitz.” He tucked a finger under the man’s chin and lifted to look into his eyes. “That was unworthy.”

“No,” Fitzwilliam said graciously. “You’re right, Dorian, I don’t know you. But I _want_ to. Kissing in alcoves, playful breaks in my chambers, those are all well and good. But you’re not a toy. Not a diversion. I want to know you.” He paused then, taking a deep breath, as if steeling himself to say something. “And I want you to know me.” Dorian smiled softly at that. “I want you to feel safe showing me who you are. So, with that in mind,” he said, pulling away with a small smile. “I’ve ordered a good whiskey to my quarters and some food. The fire is blazing. I’ve given orders that I am not to be disturbed. I’d like you to come, when you are ready.”

Dorian smirked. “So _forward_ , Inquisitor!” He drawled wickedly. Fitzwilliam mock-scowled. “I know, I tease too much.” The mage smiled and nodded. “I shall… arrive.” He smirked again. This was too easy. Fitzwilliam laughed. “I’ll come by the servant’s stair, to avoid scandal, shall I?”

Fitzwilliam smiled. “You may come to the door proper, or the stair, as you please, Dorian. I am not ashamed of you.”

Dorian’s heart swelled. His eyes watered. He nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you for that.”

Fitzwilliam nodded, smiled, and turned to leave. As he opened the door and walked out he called, “Don’t keep me waiting.”

The door closed and Dorian stared at it. “I wouldn’t dream of it… Amatus,” he whispered to the empty room.

 

VVV

 

                                Fitzwilliam paced nervously. He wasn’t sure Dorian would come. Not entirely sure, at any rate. And besides that the things he planned to reveal tonight… He eyed the whisky. He could have a little, just to take the edge off. Dorian had already been drinking. It would be okay to catch up.

                He strode to the table next to the couch, which he had had moved to set in front of the fire, poured some into a glass, and shot it back all in one swig. “I like a man who doesn’t go halfway,” an amused voice remarked. Fitzwilliam turned quickly to see Dorian standing by the inner door. “Oh,” the man continued, walking forward. Did I catch you with your hand in the sweets?”

                Fitzwilliam smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “Care for a glass?”

                Dorian inspected the bottle, then sniffed it. “It does smell acceptable,” he said, handing the bottle over. Fitzwilliam poured two glasses, then gestured to the couch.

                “Couch near the fire, large pelt on the floor before it? Why Inquisitor, I didn’t know you were such a romantic!” Dorian ribbed as he sat at the far end of the couch. Fitzwilliam laughed. They clinked glasses, and sipped. “Fasta vass,” Dorian said, then made a _very_ primal noise. “Where did you find such a fine drink?

                Fitzwilliam smiled, pleased. “Promise not to tell?”

                Dorian leaned closer, intrigued. “On my honor as a Vint,” he swore.

                Fitzwilliam laughed. “No good,” he said. “I’ve known too many Vints.” Dorian had the presence of mind to look shocked and affronted.

                “If that will not stand, I hardly know what I could swear on,” he huffed dramatically.

                “You don’t have to swear on anything, Dorian,” Fitzwilliam said, sipping. “Your word is more than enough.” He felt warm inside, and he wasn’t sure if it was the drink.

Dorian smiled at him. “Very well,” he said. “You have it.”

“I…” Fitzwilliam drawled trying not to laugh. “Found it.”

Dorian sputtered. “ _Found_ it?”

Fitzwilliam nodded, laughing. “In a derelict fort,” he chuckled. Dorian looked into his glass suspiciously, as if trying to decide something.

“Did the Herald of Andraste just try to poison me?” He asked, shocked.

Fitzwilliam couldn’t help it, he laughed, loud and long. Maybe it ended with a somewhat undignified giggle, but it was worth it to hear Dorian laughing, see the light in his eyes. When the Inquisitor stopped laughing he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and sipped again. “I had it tested, Dorian. I would never knowingly endanger you.” He saw the mage smile and look down at the glass in his hands.

“I know,” he said simply.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. The fire casting flickers of light dancing about the room. The whiskey warming them, emboldening the Inquisitor. Finally, he emptied the glass and stood, reaching for the bottle again.

“I grew up in the Free Marches,” he began. The honey-brown liquid pooled in his glass. He walked over and offered it up to the mage, who lifted his glass and accepted. “My family is noble, but pretty far down the succession. Our money is mostly what keeps us relevant.” He placed the bottle back and sat again, closer to Dorian this time. The couch was small. \ Fitzwilliam rested his elbows on his knees, turning his glass as he spoke.

“Growing up I knew my parents loved me. I have no siblings. They hung all their hopes for their house on me. I hid nothing from them,” he said, sipping. “Nothing. When I was old enough to understand the feelings I had, I went to them. They did not make me feel like I was _wrong_ but…” he sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “The talk I got was not about morality or the natural order of things. It was about duty.”

To his left Dorian made a noncommittal sound of encouragement.

“Serving something greater than one’s self was something they had instilled in me all my life. My position, our name, the weight they carried… those things could be used to affect change. To make things better for those below us. I don’t begrudge them this. These lessons are something I carry with me to this day. They are part of the reason I am _here._ With the Inquisition.” Fitzwilliam stared into the fire. Watching the flickering was soothing and hypnotic. He could almost see the faces of his loved ones dancing in them. “I was young when I told them, just starting adolescence. But I was already betrothed. Syrah,” he sighed, “was the best of women. And my best friend for most of my years. We had known each other from our youth. I told her everything. She knew what I was.”

Fitzwilliam sat up, turning to look at Dorian. Maker, that was harder than it should be. “Syrah… she loved me. In the truest way. And I loved her. She also had a brother, Merlot. Just a bit older than I. He was often with us. He taught me how to fight. When I was older, how to drink. How one talks to a lady. He did not know my secret. And I loved him… well I thought I loved him,” Fitzwilliam said with a smile. “The exuberance of youth – feeling a strong emotion and attaching the only word we know that is as strong. I pined after him for years. Syrah knew, of course, I kept nothing from her.

“When I came of age we threw a great feast. We ate, we danced, we drank. Merlot and I… we drank more than we ever had before. And it emboldened me. Now that I was of age it would not be long before Syrah and I would wed. And before that happened I needed to tell Merlot how I felt. So I asked him to meet me in a small forgotten room in the east wing. He knew of it, we’d all played there as children.”

Fitzwilliam finished his drink, placed his glass on the floor and steeled himself. He looked away from Dorian back to the fire. But he could still feel the mage’s penetrating gaze upon him. “He came as I asked. The room was full of things we’d brought there over the years. Books, candles, games, papers and ink and chalk, a pile of blankets so we didn’t have to sit on the cold floor. He was smiling when he came in. He mused of our childhood. Asked if I had ever… well he asked of my relationship with his sister. He didn’t believe me when I told him ‘never’.”

“And then?” He heard Dorian ask softly from behind him.

“Then I was drunk and young and terrified. I pushed Merlot against the wall… and I kissed him. I had expected him to push me away, or stand frozen, unmoving, but he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me back. We had a night of passion. My heart felt so full. I told Syrah the next day and she smiled and laughed and was so happy to see my happiness. She still intended to be my wife. ‘There are far worse things in this world’, she had told me, ‘than marrying your best friend’.  She didn’t care about the rest of it.”

Fitzwilliam ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it. “You might think that the next day Merlot blamed the wine, denied me, but he did not. Syrah, Merlot, and I sat and discussed the future. His sister and I would be wed. He would be free to spend as much time as he wished in our home. Someday he might take a wife but he was not the firstborn male of his family. He could do as he pleased. We had everything figured out, a council of fools,” the Inquisitor grumbled.

He went quiet then. Reliving the good had been hard enough. Could he really bare his soul to Dorian like this? _I must._ Dorian had to know. Fitzwilliam had to tell him.

“Syrah had a riding accident with her eldest brother,” he said, choking on the words. After all these years the pain was still sharp. “They both died. My parents arranged a new marriage. Merlot had to take over as heir. He came to me and told me we must part. I balked. I bargained. I railed. Until he told me he had never loved me. That he stayed to secure Syrah’s future with me. I still…” Fitzwilliam swallowed hard. “I still don’t know if he meant any of it.

“I fought with my parents. I was terror to everyone I loved. For years. The night I got the mark,” he took a deep breath, knowing the worst was over now. “I was in the Chantry asking for guidance. For purpose. My life felt so empty. I’d left home to find… something. And I ended up there. I still don’t remember what happened after. I heard cries for help…” Fitzwilliam laughed softly. “Perhaps Andraste heard me after all. Marked me. Brought me here. To purpose.”

Dorian sipped. Fitzwilliam could not look at him but he could hear him. “And you would have been okay with that?” The mage asked finally. His voice held curiosity, disbelief. “Living a lie?”

The Inquisitor turned, with great effort, and looked at him. “Dorian, I… My parents would have known, Syrah, Merlot, they would have known. I had four people who knew the truth of me, and loved me. That is far more than many people get.” It hurt Fitzwilliam to say, knowing that Dorian had been searching for just such a thing his whole life.

Dorian nodded, “I hadn’t thought of it like that. I suppose you would have had quite a happy life. There’s that whole “having an heir” thing you would have to have worked out, but I’m sure you could have managed.” A corner of his mouth went up in a playful, yet sad, smile. “So how do things stand now? It’s been more than a year since you left… well, were taken, by Seeker Cassandra.”

“My parents have written,” Fitzwilliam said somewhat happily. “The Inquisition has been good for our family. I am still to inherit. Merlot’s wife is expecting her fourth child. He is hoping it will be his first son.”

“He wrote to you?” Dorian asked, surprise obvious.

Fitzwilliam laughed softly. “Hardly. My mother and father are close with his family after all. Had they a second daughter I imagine I would have been betrothed to her. I’ve made it clear that I will be accepting no further matches.”

Dorian furrowed his brow, “And they accepted that?”

“Oh,” Fitzwilliam said offhandedly, “mother will still try to play matchmaker, I’m sure. But I outrank them now. She can tell me of this lovely woman or that powerful house, but she cannot negotiate for me. I am free. And I… I don’t tell them everything anymore.”

Dorian put down his glass. _How long has it been empty?_ He turned to fully face the Inquisitor. “Fitzwilliam,” he said gently, “I need to know… why would you tell me all this?”

Fitzwilliam thought for a moment before speaking. “Your father,” he began, turning away to look at the fire again. “When we went to see him you were vulnerable in front of me. When we came back you shared something that causes you great pain. And it seemed like when you realized that you felt as if I had something over you.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “You’re far more intuitive than people give you credit for, your worship.”

Fitzwilliam smiled softly and looked back to the fire. “I wanted to balance the scales. But more than that Dorian, I…” _Just say it Nugg-head._ “I want you to know me. You’re the first person since Syrah died… I mean, I haven’t been able to trust… I…” he fumbled for the words. “You fought to keep the things that make you, you,” Fitzwilliam said in a rush. “And you let me see them, sometimes. And I… I don’t know where this goes or how anyone feels or if I’m a blight-blasted fool, but I want you to know me as I am, not just the Inquisitor. Not just a man you kiss in corners. I want someone who knows _me_.”

                Fitzwilliam felt a hand on his arm and turned to look at Dorian again. Maker, let the firelight hid the flush on his face. Dorian caught his gaze and looked intently for a long while. It was hard not to look away.

                Finally he spoke, “take off your jacket.”

                Fitzwilliam blinked. Hard. Twice. “Sorry?”

                Dorian laughed then, a big, boisterous sound of pure amusement and affection. “Even now,” he explained, “after that confession, you are so buttoned up. Properly attired, manners on – in your own chambers, with a … companion and a fine whiskey. So, jacket off.” Fitzwilliam smiled and complied, laying the jacket over the back of the couch. He felt Dorian’s eyes on him, expected his sharp wit, but his next words were simple, “roll up the sleeves on that undershirt.” Fitzwilliam complied. “Good, now, sit there.” The mage pointed to a spot on the floor about midway through the length of the couch. Fitzwilliam stood, Dorian shifted to the middle of the couch, and he gestured for Fitzwilliam to sit. “No, not facing me, you fool,” he said affectionately. “Face the fire, sit between my legs.” He looked at the Inquisitor’s face and laughed. “My lord, you look like a scared puppy. I promise, I will do nothing… untoward, without express permission. Now sit.”

                Fitzwilliam pressed his back against the couch, feeling Dorian’s legs on either side of him. “You’ve made a mess of your hair,” he said. And then Dorian’s hands were touching his head. Smoothing, running his fingers through it. “I would never, muss my hair, naturally,” Dorian said. Fitzwilliam could hear the smile in his voice. “But you look quite good.”

Fitzwilliam smiled. “A compliment?” He joked. “From you?”

“Hard earned, I know,” Dorian replied jovially. He was quiet for a long time, simply touching Fitzwilliam. His hair, his neck. It was surprisingly intimate. Fitzwilliam was actually startled when the mage spoke again. “My first love was Relenus.”

“Dorian,” Fitzwilliam said, reaching up to take Dorian’s hand. “You don’t have to…”

“I know,” the mage said, cutting him off. “I wouldn’t tell you such a thing out of obligation, Fitz. I want to tell you.” Fitzwilliam lifted the hand, turned his head, and kissed it before releasing him. He heard Dorian make a soft sound, but that was his only reaction.

“I don’t like to delve into my past,” he said, resuming his touches. “Relenus was a friend of the family. He and I were close. We didn’t meet until I was of age, until I was already betrothed. But that didn’t stop us. Relenus, had skin tan like fine whiskey, his lips curled when he smiled…” his voice trailed off wistfully. “After my father and I had our falling out I went to Relenus. I was going to ask him to come with me.

                “When I arrived he told me his family had made an unexpectedly good match for him. His house wasn’t of much rank. But somehow someone had secured a great leap in status for them if Relenus would but wed a daughter. I always suspected my father had a hand in it.” He paused, sad. He sighed. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said, touching the skin on Fitzwilliam’s neck softly. “I didn’t ask him to come with me,” he said. Fitzwilliam could hear the ache in his voice. “I told myself it was because I wanted what was best for him. This good match, a good life. And all I was offering was the life of an outcast. But… I was scared. That’s why I didn’t ask. I told him I was happy for him and left. Because I was afraid when I asked he wouldn’t say yes.” His voice was angry by the end.

                “I asked after Relenus when my father visited. He told me he’s expecting his third child. Perhaps I was no more than a diversion for him after all.” Dorian’s forearm draped over Fitzwilliam’s shoulder, fingers finding the hair of his chest through the laces of his shirt and playing with it absentmindedly. Fitzwilliam reached up, running his fingers over the soft skin on the back of the mage’s hand. “It shouldn’t matter,” Dorian said, frustrated. “It was years ago. But nothing after that… let’s just say my experiences after Relenus didn’t exactly make a romantic out of me.”

Fitzwilliam tugged on Dorian’s arm and scooted forward. “Join me,” the Inquisitor said. Dorian slid off the couch on to the floor behind him. Fitzwilliam leaned back and wrapped the mage’s arms around him. Dorian hugged him from behind. Fitzwilliam hugged the mage’s arms close.

They talked the rest of the night. Sharing stories and laughter. Hard moments of loved ones lost. Joyous memories of love before it all went wrong. They shifted about the pelt before the fire sometimes sitting, sometimes lying down. Sometimes embracing, other times gazing fondly.

                Eventually the whiskey and the warm fire and the comfort and the night began to take their toll.

                “I should go back to my chambers,” Dorian said, eyes closes, nearly asleep next to Fitzwilliam on the pelt. Fitzwilliam stood without a word and the mage sat up abruptly. “Have I offended?” He asked, concerned.

                Fitzwilliam said nothing. He went to his bed, stripped it of linens and pillows, and brought the pile to the fire. Dorian stood and watched Fitzwilliam make a nest there. He gestured wordlessly. And Dorian lay back down, head on a pillow, buried under a blanket. Fitzwilliam joined, facing the mage, smiling a quiet smile of contentment. Their hands entwined under the blanket and Fitzwilliam closed his eyes. He felt Dorian shift, and then felt the mage’s lips on his own. The kiss they shared was gentle, fragile. When they parted Dorian kept his face close and said, “Thank you.” Fitzwilliam could feel his breath on his face, warm and scented with whiskey.

                “For?” The Inquisitor replied.

                “I feel more… whole… right now, than I have in years,” he said softly.

Fitzwilliam simply pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him and said, “You’re not alone in that regard.”

There was silence after that. Fitzwilliam felt Dorian’s heart beat against him, his breath coming in slower increments, his muscles relaxing. And as he drifted off to sleep Fitzwilliam felt the mage nuzzle closer and say “Rest well, Amatus,” before the darkness took them both to slumber.

 

 

AN: Longest chapter yet! Hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for the Kudos and super extra thanks for reviewing. I don't like to ask for reviews but they sure are encouraging when I get them:)


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 5 

It was sometime later when Fitzwilliam approached him in the library, very unceremoniously asking…

“…about an amulet?” The Inquisitor inquired.

Dorian started. “How did you hear that? Oh… Leliana. Of course _she_ would find out,” he sighed. “Look,” he said in what he hopped was a commanding voice. “Don’t make an issue of it. I don’t want someone solving my personal problems for me. _I’ll_ get the amulet back… somehow. On my own.”

“But what is it?” Fitzwilliam asked. The man could be so obtuse about the most obvious things.

“The Pavus birthright,” Dorian explained patiently. “The flashy thing you show to peons to make the tremble at your impressive lineage. I didn’t leave Tevinter with much in the way of coin, so I sold it.” He continued hurriedly, “Entirely forbidden, of course, and foolish, but I was desperate. I’ll figure something out.”

“You don’t even like your family. Why would you want it back?” Fitzwilliam asked. Really the man was so short-sighted. He could tell him the truth, that his father’s visit had made him realize he wasn’t free from his family forever. That the amulet would be needed.

But, no. Instead he said, “Because it’s mine and it shouldn’t be… passed around like candy!”

“That’s the _only_ reason?” Fitz asked. Perhaps he wasn’t _so_ obtuse.

“Its reason enough,” Dorian said harshly. “Leave it be.”

“For something that seems so important I would have expected more than, ‘I’ll get it somehow’,” Fitzwilliam continued.

“It’s not the _only_ thing that’s important,” Dorian said meaningfully.

“There are plenty of ways to skin a nug, Dorian. We’ll get it back,” he reassured.

“And I _will_ ,” the mage said with determination. “I’ll get it back. _I_ lost the amulet. I may not have your resources, but I can’t ask you to…” he paused, finding he was not articulating himself well. “You have too many people asking you for everything under the sun. I won’t be one of them.”

VVV

“I need you for a mission, Dorian,” Dorian said mockingly as they reentered the castle. The trip with the merchant hadn’t gone very well. Fitzwilliam was sure he was never to hear the end of this. “I said I didn’t want to be indebted, I said I got myself into it and I should get myself out of it. But did the high-and-mighty Herald of Andraste listen to me? Noooo.” The hall was abuzz watching the tiff. Fitzwilliam herded the mage up the stairwell toward the library. Someone must have sent warning, because not a soul was in the keep. Not even the tranquil.

Fitzwilliam was remembering the end. Dorian swearing at the man in Vintish. Protesting that the Inquisitor was not his friend. He had begun to say something else. “He’s not my friend, he’s…” What? My liege? Was that all he was to Dorian? They’d been close. Sneaking off for quiet moments alone together. Finding places where, in Dorian’s words “a hundred onlookers wouldn’t think he was stealing the Inquisitor’s soul”. He smiled a little at the thought. But now, now the mage was railing. Perhaps he’d done the wrong thing.

Before they left he’d said he didn’t want to discuss it, but now the man wouldn’t shut up about it. Ranting and raving, pulling off this bit of armor and that, scattering it about the tower as if it were his chambers.

“Dorian, please,” Fitzwilliam said gently.

“Please, what? Oh, now you’re willing to _ask_? You were willing to do as you wished before, why bother now?” Dorian sneered.

“You want me to order you to calm down?” Fitzwilliam said with a smile. A joke.

“Oh you can _try_ ,” the man shouted.

“Dorian, I just… I need you to talk to me. Why does this have you so upset?”

The mage turned his back to the Inquisitor and did not reply. Fitzwilliam sighed, took the amulet from his pocket and moved close. He placed it in Dorian’s hand, then turned to leave.

“Now I’m indebted to you,” he said. His voice was soft. Sad. Fitzwilliam stopped.

Dorian turned and walked up to him. “I never wanted that, I told you.” He was angry again. What was going on with the man? He was all over the place.

“I didn’t do this so you would be indebted to me, Dorian. I did this for you!” Fitzwilliam shouted, finally.

Dorian sighed. “That’s the problem.”

“How is that a problem?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“You are the most _frustrating_ man!” Dorian shouted again.

“Explain it to me, then!” the Inquisitor shouted back.

Dorian adopted the tone of a man explaining to a child, “Someone intelligent would cozy up to the inquisitor if they could. It would be foolish not to. He can open doors. Get you whatever you want. Shower you with gifts and power. That’s what they’ll say, Fitzwilliam! They’ll say I’m the magister who’s _using_ you.” He broke a little at the end, sadness showing through again.

Fitzwilliam was dumbfounded. “I… had no idea you were concerned about that,” he said, finally.

“I don’t care what they think about _me_ , Fitz,” Dorian said, exasperated. He finished in a rush, as if, if he didn’t say it now the right words might be lost forever. “I care what they think about _us._ ”

And then Fitzwilliam understood. _He thinks my feelings for him are going to hobble the Inquisition._

Dorian sighed heavily and went on, “I… was an ass earlier, at the merchant’s. It’s my specialty.” He turned the amulet in his hands. Then bowed dashingly. “I apologize and thank you.”

Then Dorian moved forward, thanking properly, with his lips and hands, and Fitzwilliam was breathless when they parted. Dorian too, was breathing a little heavily. “I’m going to stop before I say something syrupy,” he said with a smile, his fingertips brushing against Fitzwilliam’s lips softy. “But I won’t forget this. And I _will_ repay you.” His voice was husky, and rough. The promise in it made Fitzwilliam shiver. “Count on it.”

VVV

Dorian paced back and forth in the small alcove. It had been days since the Inquisitor had retrieved his amulet. The chain now hung heavy around his neck. In the past it had felt like a mill-stone weighing him down. Now he was surprised to find he was enjoying having it back. It felt, settled there, like a part of him that had been missing. It was an… odd feeling. The mage shook his head. Clearly he was just trying to distract himself.

 _I promised to repay him._ He grumbled inwardly. _But how?_ What did you get to repay a man who could ask favors from Kings? Who had the Inquisition’s coffers at his disposal? He raised his hand, and rubbed the back of his neck, frustrated.

“Master Pavus,” an amused voice called from above. Dorian looked about confused, then saw that across the circular room and one floor up Leliana was leaning down, looking at him. “Do join me,” she said with a smile once it had become clear he’d seen her.

He huffed and mumbled to himself. Didn’t the woman know he was busy? _Oh yes,_ he mocked inwardly, _you look_ quite _busy walking about in circles and talking at yourself._ But he made his way up the side stair to the rookery.

It was empty. Well, not _empty._ The ravens were there. And Leliana. But the researchers, the messengers, even the odd servant or two, they were all absent. “Join me,” she said in an Orlesian drawl, soft from across the room.

Dorian approached, bowed rakishly and took her hand. “Madame Spymaster,” he said formally, kissing the tips of her fingers before straightening. Leliana quirked a smile. “What can I do for you?” He asked.

“You seemed distressed,” she said casually, flipping through papers on her desk.

“A bit of frustration, perhaps, but hardly a matter with which our spymaster need concern herself,” he said with a small, slightly wary, laugh.

“I see you’ve retrieved your amulet,” she noted, still not looking at him. That made him glare. _‘See’? Andraste’s ass, you ‘see’. It’s under my shirt._ “Perhaps this matter is related? Some concern over what comes next when this is over and you return home?”

Dorian continued glaring. “I’ve not yet decided if I _will_ return home, Mistress.” He said somewhat harshly. “Although, I fully expect to die before the end of this.”

Leliana did look at him then. _Grinning._ “Good, I was hoping you’d say that.” Dorian rolled his eyes. “In that case,” she continued, “perhaps your distress has to do with trying to find a way to thank the Inquisitor for his efforts on your behalf?”

He glared again. “Of course you know about that,” he sighed. “You alerted him to the amulet. It’s only natural that you would have known when he gave it to me. Tell me, Madame Spymaster, do we have any privacy? Or are your ears everywhere?”  
                Leliana smiled slyly. “I’ve ensured your privacy more than you might think,” she replied. “Though you two might consider spending more time in closed rooms. Or at least get a curtain for that alcove.” Her eyes twinkled playfully.             

 _Do not blush_. Dorian reprimanded himself. Still he cleared his throat. “Point taken. I shall have a… visual barrier installed.” Leliana just smiled. “Did you have real advice, Leliana, or did you ask me up here simply to poke fun?”

The spy smiled softly, actual affection coloring her tone, “What’s the problem, Dorian?”

Dorian sighed and rubbed the back of his neck again. “What do you get for a man like Fi… the Inquisitor,” he corrected.  “King Alistair asks favors of him, he can buy anything he desires, he can command armies! What do you get for a man who has that kind of wealth and power at his disposal?” Dorian was surprised to find his voice had risen as he spoke. He took a deep breath.

“You can think of nothing, Master Mage, which those things cannot give him?” She asked, a small twinkle in her eye.

“Not in the past few days,” he sighed.

Leliana approached him then, coming close, resting her hand on his chest and looking up into his eyes. Her voice was soft, full of emotion and sincerity. “I can think of one thing, Master Pavus. A thing which his connections, wealth, power, and status cannot grant the Inquisitor. And, as it happens, it is the one thing he truly wants.”

Dorian looked down at her confused. _Must the woman always take the most round-about way?_ “And what, pray tell, might it be? Although, if his wealth cannot get it for him, surely my complete lack of affluence won’t be able to either.”

Leliana smiled. She looked like she was trying not to laugh. “On the contrary,” she said. “You are the only person in the world who can give him what he desires.”

Dorian furrowed his brow and Leliana burst out laughing. She dropped her hand and stepped back. “Oh Dorian,” she giggled. “You’ve such a clever wit, a fast tongue, a brilliant mind… but _Maker_ if you aren’t oblivious. It’s you _._ He wants _you._ ”

The mage blinked, opened his mouth, and closed it again. He didn’t expect her to speak so bluntly about something like that. It was shocking. She laughed and laughed.

“Best go now,” she chuckled. “Before I pop a rib or something.”

Dorian walked to the side-stair silently. Before he descended he turned toward her. “And you would be… okay with that?” He asked, disbelievingly.  

He saw Leliana’s smile and heard the sincerity in her voice when she said, “I would be ecstatic.”

He could do nothing but nod, and hope that conveyed appreciation. He turned and continued down the stair, toward the familiar alcove. He sat in the large chair pretending to read.

It was of some comfort to know Fitzwilliam wanted him. The inquisitor had made it clear, recently, that he wanted to be close, good friends. They had shared some kisses. Obviously they had chemistry. But Dorian could not bring himself to believe the man wanted what Dorian wanted. A close friendship. Occasional passion. Would that be enough for Dorian? Could he bear that? He’d been good at putting those feelings aside in the past. Surely he could do that now. And if he could give this to Fitzwilliam, then he would. He wanted nothing more than to bring him happiness. He’d been nothing but kind to the mage.

Of course, try as he might to deny it Dorian knew this was different. Relenus had been everything to him, but even then he’d dared not dream. And the two men, although passionate, had never really … talked the way he and the Inquisitor had. Dorian felt that Fitzwilliam _knew_ him, or at least meant to. Fitzwilliam wanted to keep him close. A confidant. A friend. And if they sometimes indulged in each other, well, then that would be fine.

Dorian felt his face warming. “Keep it together,” he grumbled under his breath, looking intently at his book. “This isn’t about you.”

It was about Fitzwilliam. Maker’s breath, Dorian had never met a man like this. Thrown into this chaos, asked to lead. A power like that would go to some men’s heads, break others. Dorian had seen enough of that in his life growing up with a Magister for a father. Some men used the power to gain, to horde to themselves. Others fell into gibbering fools, cracking. But Fitzwilliam… he did his best. He considered what was good for everyone regardless of station. He wasn’t afraid to make an unpopular choice as long as it was the right one. Wasn’t afraid to run about playing pranks with Sera, reminding everyone that the Inquisitor was a person, just like the rest of them. Not afraid to join Bull when he went drinking, incognito, with the foot-troops, hearing their plights and learning their names. He wasn’t afraid to call out the Circles as prisons even though people argued tradition and religion in an effort to sway him.

Dorian had seen what fear could do. That decision could have led to riots, lynch mobs. But he put the Seeker in charge. Asked her to reform. Backed her for Divine (though they’d hear no word on that until after the fight with Corypheus was done). He’d shown bravery, and intelligence in those choices. Not just blind altruism.

Dorian didn’t just like the man, he respected him. He would follow him into the end of days. He laughed to himself. _I might be doing just that._ The mage would have killed for a brandy right now. It was the right kind of drink for this kind of contemplation and the room was growing cold.

He supposed it came down to this – Dorian wanted to be with Fitzwilliam for however long they had. It wasn’t likely that either of them would come out of this alive. The odds that both of them would survive? Well, as he’d told Varric, he wouldn’t be betting on the Inquisition. So there was no sense in holding back because he might grow to love Fitzwilliam – because he might get hurt in the future.

What future?

He closed the book, slid it into the back of his belt and went to his room.

It was time to make some plans.

VVV

 

Fitzwilliam walked up to the alcove to find it covered by a dark red curtain pleated in heavy velvet. It ran from the very top of the arch, all the way to the stone floor, resting on the carpet there.

“Do you like it?” Dorian asked from behind him.

“Yes?” Fitzwilliam replied, confused.

The mage laughed, walking around him, and pulled the curtain back. “After you, your worship,” he said bowing. Fitzwilliam lifted an eyebrow at him, but entered.

The alcove looked the same, really. Books, a chair, a carpet, a fireplace. There was a pelt-lined blanket on the back of the chair. That was new, but it was starting to get even colder at Skyhold, with winter proper setting in. “Okaaaay,” Fitzwilliam drawled turning around. “Why?”

Dorian smiled, wickedly and approached him. “This is why,” he said softly, voice raw. And then his hands grabbed Fitzwilliam about the waist, pressed him back, gently until he was against the wall, and kissed him deeply. Fitzwilliam’s head was set spinning, his heart raced, his hands grasped blindly, and he kissed back with as much feeling as he could manage amongst the shock. It was long moments before the mage slowed his assault.

Finally, Dorian stopped. He broke the kiss, then seemed to think better of it, and dropped another brief kiss, all soft affection and sweetness against the Inquisitor’s lips. Fitzwilliam breathed heavily, his eyes opening slowly, and looked at the mage with surprise. “As nice as that was,” he said, “I’m not sure I understand your explanation.”

“Nice?” Dorian exclaimed with mock affront. “My dear Inquisitor, puppies are nice. Grandmothers are nice. Landscape paintings are _nice._ That kiss, was not nice.”

Fitzwilliam chuckled softly. “Okay, okay, my apologies.”

Dorian sighed, “True artists are never appreciated in their time.” He smiled then, and squeezed Fitzwilliam’s hips gently. “The curtain is for a degree of privacy,” he said in a soft voice.

Fitzwilliam smiled. “Well, no one can see us, but they can still hear us.”

Dorian nodded. “It’s for kissing, and touching, and sharing time, Fitz. If you had other activities in mind, however, I could see about having a proper door installed.” The man was a wicked tease. And Fitzwilliam found himself swallowing loudly, and trying not to think about the way the mage pressed against him. _Think about war table maneuvers_ , he thought frantically. “Fitz?” Dorian was saying somewhere across the daze.

Fitzwilliam took a deep breath to calm himself, but that only pressed him closer to the mage. He thought he might be visibly sweating at this point. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Dorian. _Maker know it’s not that._ But he was so close, and they weren’t really alone, and Fitzwilliam had no idea what Dorian _really_ wanted from him. Was this all a game to the man? He was sure Dorian meant no harm, and they _had_ been getting closer, but Dorian always seemed to pull away when things got a little too real. Flirting, and witty banter, kissing, that was all okay, but it had damn near taken a druffalo to drag the man to the point where he would open up about his past. Maybe this was all he wanted. Closeness, and pleasure, and reassurance in unsure times.

Fitz blinked and focused on Dorian. His hands were warm where they rested on his hips. Fitzwilliam lifted a hand and touched Dorian’s face gently before leaning up and kissing him tenderly. It was long and slow, and Fitzwilliam felt a dull ache in his chest from the emotion it carried. “Thank you,” he said when they parted.

Dorian looked at him with awe. “It…” he began unsteadily. “It’s just a curtain.” He smiled shyly. _Maker, what a sight._

“No it’s not. It’s… peace. It’s you, and this place, and feeling safe and free from the decisions that weigh on me. It’s not having to wait until the night to get to touch you,” he said softly, letting his fingers trail down Dorian’s neck.

He felt Dorian shiver under the caress. “It’s night now, Fitz,” he said looking past him out the window. And Fitzwilliam knew he was right, the sun was nearly down when he had climbed the stairs of the tower.

Fitzwilliam smirked and nudged Dorian lightly, making him sway. “You know what I mean,” he reprimanded affectionately.

Dorian was quiet for a long time. Fitzwilliam watched as he looked toward the fire. He seemed to be contemplating something. They were still close, touching, and Fitzwilliam moved his thumb, brushing where it rested on Dorian’s hip. Finally, the mage looked at him. “I said I would repay you,” he said, his voice soft and strained. “And I’m starting to see now that that might be an impossible task.”

Fitzwilliam furrowed his brow and shook his head gently, “Dorian, I told you, you don’t owe me anything.”

Dorian smiled at him, and Fitzwilliam could see the wetness in his eyes. “I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, Inquisitor. It may be impossible, but if I don’t try I’ll never actually know.” He quirked a half-smile then, and backed away. Fitzwilliam felt colder without him near.

Dorian left the alcove with a swish of the velvet curtain.

Fitzwilliam stared after him long after he had gone.

 

AN: No, the curtain was not the repayment. Just a gesture. ;) And man, Fitz really isn’t taking it easy on Dorian is he?

Thanks for comments and Kudos! Keep it coming:)


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 6

Dorian had lured the Inquisitor so easily. A simple question in passing: have you been to your rooms lately? A promise of a gift. And now, as Dorian walked in the Inquisitor was rooting about on his desk, looking. He turned with surprise when Dorian spoke.

"So…" he drawled. "It's all very nice, this flirting business. I am, however, not a nice man." He could feel the smirk on his face when he said it. "So here is my proposal: we dispense with the chit-chat and move on to something more primal."  _Maker above, what am I doing with my hand? What is this gesture? Am I petting my chin?_  Perhaps Dorian was being more nonchalant about this than he felt. From an early age he'd learnt sex was not love. There was no reason to complicate this. And Dorian did  _so_  want the man before him. "It'll set tongues wagging of course. Not that they aren't already wagging." Dorian crossed the room, and walked up behind Fitz. The smell of him was intoxicating. Was the man even receptive to this? Dorian had been too busy putting on a show to take in his reaction. He was being uncharacteristically quiet… "I suppose it really depends," he dropped his voice to a whisper, moving his lips close to Fitzwilliam's ear. He saw him shiver as his hot breath hit skin. "How  _bad_  does the inquisitor want to be?"

Dorian wasn't sure what he expected. Fitzwilliam to turn and kiss him? An affirmation? What he was not expecting was the man to turn around and say, "Do we need to move things this quickly?" Dorian gapped.  _Quickly!?_

"Quickly!?" Dorian said with a smirk. "By my standards we have been positively chaste!"

The Inquisitor shrugged.

"What is it you want from me, exactly?" He asked jokingly. "A relationship?

"Is that such a terrible idea?" Fitzwilliam replied. Dorian's eyes went wide and he turned away in reflex. That was definitely  _not_  what he had expected. "Speechless, I see," Fitzwilliam said. Dorian could hear the smile.

Dorian turned back. "It doesn't happen often." He looked at Fitzwilliam for a moment. Perhaps the man didn't understand. Perhaps he thought this was what Dorian needed and was too nice to take advantage. "You don't have to do this, you know." He said.

"Do what?"

"I've been a port in a storm before, Fitz. I would understand. This war is our night and when the dawn comes we'll sail our separate ways."  _There, that's a good explanation._

"Is… is that what you want?" The Inquisitor sounded saddened.

"No, I… Where I come from anything between men, it's  _physical_. It's about pleasure. It's accepted but taken no further. It's not that you don't care. You just learn not to hope for more," he said.  _Now he'll understand._

"What?" Fitzwilliam asked. "Why not? What's the worst that can happen?"

"Augh!" The mage threw up his hands in frustration. "You say that as if it is a simple thing, easily imagined. I have no examples with which to compare."

"You don't want to," the Herald's voice was sad but understanding, resigned.

 _Understanding the wrong thing!_ "No!" He shouted hurriedly.

"No?" Fitzwilliam asked. Sadder still.

"No, I mean… Maker. Fitz, I feel like you are asking me to become a unicorn – and I don't even know what one looks like."

"I'm not asking you to change, Dorian," Fitzwilliam said seriously.

"No, I don't think that either. Andraste's tit, you cloud my thoughts," Dorian sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're giving me a headache."

Fitzwilliam moved forward and took Dorian's head in his hands, rubbing gentle circles around his temples. "Okay," he said slowly after a moment, and Dorian looked into his eyes. "You don't have an example. Nor I. But I'm sure we can muddle through, somehow."

Dorian barked a short, amused laugh. "What? Like the Inquisition? Make it up as we go?"

"Works for me," Fitzwilliam replied with a shrug. He dropped his hands from Dorian's face and the mage missed the warmth of them.

"Clearly," Dorian smirked. He bowed his head. "Fine, have it your way. But I'm not leaving empty handed, it's a matter of pride." He kissed Fitzwilliam gently then pulled back, smiling. There was something in the other man's eyes. He just couldn't quite make it out…

Fitzwilliam kissed him then, hard and full of passion and it set Dorian's head spinning. When he stopped he could feel the need between them, both the Inquisitor's and his own. "What happened to moving too quickly?"

Fitzwilliam shrugged, still holding him tightly. "I… I don't want to lose you. I needed to know we're on the same page. Doe, it's not that I don't want you. I…"

"Shut up," Dorian said and kissed him again, hard, pushing him back toward the bed.

Dorian felt the Inquisitor bump against the frame, halting his progress. Dorian's hands wandered, pulling randomly at Fitzwilliam's clothes. He broke the kiss, lips wandering down the side of the Inquisitor's neck. Fitzwilliam made a small sound of pleasure that reverberated against Dorian's lips. It took a while, but Dorian finally got his hands to make a concentrated effort at undoing the buckles that fastened him into the off-white formal jacket. Dorian should hardly complain, given the various straps on his own adornments. But,  _Maker_  this was frustrating.

He got the jacket undone and pulled at the hem of Fitzwilliam's undershirt, untucking it and sliding his hands beneath. The Inquisitor pulled at the jacket removing it, then pulled the shirt over his head. It broke the contact of Dorian's lips and he was put out, until he saw all the skin bared to him. He let his hands wander. Grabbing, pulling, running his nails across it, eliciting all manner of sounds from the man before him. His lips latched on to Fitzwilliam's collarbone, nipping gently, kissing messily. It took him a while to notice Fitzwilliam was pulling at the mage's clothing. "Dorian," he was gasping. "Dorian, why do you have so many blight-cursed belts on this thing?" Dorian smiled against the warm sweet-smelling skin of the Inquisitor, placed a kiss, and pulled back.

"Shall I?" He asked, his hands going to the clasps, unsnapping them slowly. Fitzwilliam nodded, a hungry look in his eyes. Dorian, being well-practiced at this, made swift work of it. Once open Fitzwilliam reached forward, sliding his hands under, caressing Dorian's sides. The hands grabbed and pulled him. Fitzwilliam pushed Dorian's top to the floor then pulled him closer. Their skin pressed together and they kissed. Dorian was finding it difficult not to take the man in a frenzy. There had been far too much build up to take his time, but he didn't want to blunder into this, or forget it once it had happened. Maker knew if it would ever happen again.

Dorian pushed the thought away. This was about this moment. He would enjoy it. His hands wandered across Fitzwilliam's back, then dipped down, cupping his ass. Fitzwilliam, Herald of Andraste, Head of the Inquisition,  _squeaked._ Dorian laughed softly against his lips. "Well," he muttered, pressing his hips against him, "that was surprisingly adorable."

Fitzwilliam was blushing, "Tell no one – it could ruin the Inquisition," he said with mock seriousness. Dorian was smitten. But the desire burned deep inside him, and he could feel Fitzwilliam's length pressed against him. He kissed him again, hard, hands moving between them, unlacing the cream-colored trousers. His fingers fumbled, but in doing so they brushed against Fitzwilliam making him moan, and the sound was so glorious that Dorian could not be bothered with being annoyed that he was performing like a lovesick boy in his new adolescence. The ties came undone and Dorian allowed himself to press his hand firmly against the other man's stomach and slide lower. Fitzwilliam's hips rolled, Dorian's thumb brushed the weeping tip of his cock and the guttural sound Fitzwilliam made caused Dorian to gasp. But he pulled his hand back.

"Maker, Dorian," Fitz panted. "Who knew you were such a tease?"

Dorian put his lips beside Fitzwilliam's ear and said huskily, "I know, I tease too much."

"That you do," the Inquisitor replied shakily as Dorian's hands wandered down. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and continued. They slid down. Dorian knelt and kept pulling. He didn't know why the Inquisitor had removed his boots but, Andraste's  _ass_ , was he ever happy about it. Fitzwilliam stepped out of the trousers and they were tossed aside.

"Venhedis," Dorian swore, looking up from where he knelt. "You undergarments match your suit?" And they did. Little silk things dyed the same color. Fitzwilliam shrugged. So Dorian reached up and pressed his palm flat against where they tented. Fitzwilliam groaned again, grasping the foot of the Orlesian sleigh bed. The mage rubbed, delighting in the sounds he was hearing.  _Maker help me, these trousers are getting tight._

In one swift motion Dorian pulled the undergarment down and tossed it aside. Before him stood Fitzwilliam in all his glory. Scars crisscrossed his slightly tan skin, the smell of him filled his nostrils – musk and something sweet. Honey. Dorian had assumed the man was sun-colored and was surprised to find his entire body was this shade, naturally. Dorian ran the palms of his hands up the Inquisitor's thighs and grabbed his hips. "Avanna," he said moving closer to Fitzwilliam's manhood. He blew softly across it and Fitzwilliam shivered.

"Dorian," he gasped, "please!"

Dorian smirked and took the man in his hand, before wrapping his lips around the head of his cock. It was maybe the most beautiful he had ever seen, and it was slick with the evidence of his arousal. Dorian laved his tongue around it, lubricating to take it deeper. Fitzwilliam moaned loudly, gasping and writhing, his legs shaking. A hand went to Dorian's shoulders gripping there, holding on. Dorian was pleased. This was what he wanted. He wanted to bring Fitzwilliam pleasure. Share with him the way he made him feel. Dorian could feel Fitzwilliam's cock twitching in his mouth.  _Not yet._  He slowed his actions then pulled back.

Fitzwilliam whimpered, disappointed. Dorian stood, and licked his lips. "Maker's breath, Fitz," he sighed happily. Fitzwilliam looked dazed, eyes glassy, breath coming fast and uneven. He was gorgeous, and Dorian almost felt bad for not finishing him right then.

But the Inquisitor blinked and shook his head a little, composing himself. Then he reached forward and started undoing Dorian's trousers. Dorian kicked off his boots, while the man worked. When Fitzwilliam's fingers brushed across his manhood it was nearly painful. Dorian was hard and throbbing and Maker take him, this wasn't going to last long, was it? And then he was standing, naked, before the only man whose good opinion mattered. It was surprisingly nerve-wracking. Dorian shifted uncomfortably, unable to make eye contact.  _So foolish_. He thought.  _This is hardly the first time I have stood naked before a man._ He was confidence incarnate usually. He felt Fitzwilliam's hand on his cheek, urging him to look. He did, warily.

"Andraste's tears, Dorian," Fitzwilliam said, voice full of awe. His eyes were full of affection and desire.

Dorian found he did not need more words than that. He fell to kissing the man, urging him to lay across the bed, pressing close to him. His hips rocked rhythmically, they became a cacophony of moans and whimpers and guttural urging. Fitzwilliam reached down between them, his hand finding Dorian's length, wrapping around it, and the mage could not help but thrust against it. Could do nothing but roll onto his back, as Fitzwilliam urged, and lay compliant under the man's touch. It was paradise. The calloused hand had a surprisingly gentle touch, though firm, and steady. Dorian squeezed his eyes shut, allowed his body to move with it, moaning. He felt Fitzwilliam shift on the bed and the next sensation made him cry out in pleasure.

Fitzwilliam's mouth was suckling at him. The man had taken him all at once and with great enthusiasm. Dorian writhed and grabbed a handful of the man's hair. It wasn't long before he was panting, "Maker, Fitzwilliam, if you don't stop I'm going to…" but the man redoubled his efforts and set the mage shaking, unable to speak.  _Not like this. Not yet._ With great effort Dorian tried again, "Please, Fitz, I want to be inside you."

He must have surprised the man, because Fitzwilliam stopped and turned to look at him. He said nothing for a long moment. Then nodded. Dorian sat up, forcing Fitzwilliam to do so as well, and kissed the man. It was long and slow and full of a primal need Dorian couldn't place. When they parted Dorian whispered, "Get in the middle of the bed, on your knees."

Dorian was honestly shocked by how composed he was as he reached into his boot and withdrew the small vial of oil he had stored there. When he arrived he thought it would be a wild clambering for release and now, well, not that it wasn't still that, but he wanted more. This wasn't making love, by any means, they weren't there yet, but, by the flame of Andraste, this was  _something_.

He knelt on the bed behind Fitzwilliam. For a moment he merely smoothed his palms across the man's thigh and hip and ass, admiring the position. Some people saw this as submission, but this time Dorian saw it as something else.  _Trust._  Fitzwilliam trusted Dorian. It made him want to be tender. The mage moved so he was kneeling beside the Inquisitor then poured a little of the oil onto two of his fingers. He rubbed it with the pad of his thumb, leaned over and kissed Fitzwilliam's back, and then allowed his hand to make its slow way to Fitzwilliam's backside.

The Inquisitor shuddered under his touch, and when his hand dipped between the smooth cheeks of his ass Dorian was pleased to hear the want in Fitzwilliam's voice as he whispered, "Yes," with bated breath and pressed back to meet the mage's hand.

Dorian started slow, merely massaging the tight ring of muscle there. Applying oil and pleasurable pressure, but not pressing into him, not yet. Dorian continued his efforts, his cock throbbing and jumping with each of Fitzwilliam's sounds of pleasure, until the man was literally trying to thrust himself back onto Dorian's fingers. His freehand smoothed across Fitzwilliam's flank, soothingly. Like one might do to a flighty horse, urging him to still his stamping. The Inquisitor did still, with great effort, and Dorian leaned forward, pouring a little more oil where his fingers rested.

He pushed slowly, in one long press. Fitzwilliam trembled and grabbed the sheets when Dorian's fingers finally entered him. "Okay, Fitz?" He asked, concerned. His hand smoothed the Inquisitor's back.

"Y…yes," came the reply.

"Are you sure?" Dorian pressed. "We don't have to…"

"Don't stop," he interrupted. "Please, I want this." He legitimately sounded worried that Dorian might stop.  _Would I?_ He wondered. Of course he would. He'd be bratty and frustrated but he would stop, pleasure Fitzwilliam another way. The man in question made a frustrated noise and began rocking his hips against Dorian's hand. His fingers moved inside him and Dorian found a rhythm. "More," Fitzwilliam gasped. Dorian pressed faster, working his fingers, stretching him, making him ready.

Dorian's voice was heady with need when he spoke again, drunk with desire, "Are you ready, Fitzwilliam?" He asked. It was a formality. A last chance for Fitzwilliam to say no. And his heart pounded with the fear that he might still do so.

He need not have worried. Fitzwilliam's response came quickly, need and wildness coloring his own words, "Maker, yes, Dorian."

Dorian moved and knelt behind the Inquisitor. He poured some of the oil into his hand and rubbed it onto his manhood, stroking and he moaned at the intensity of it, as he admired the sight before him. Fitzwilliam on his knees, face and shoulders on the bed, ass presented to him. Out of necessity, he kept his admiration brief. He wasn't going to last long as it was. Exuberant preparation would only make things go faster. He gripped his shaft and positioned himself at the tight ring of muscle before him. He pressed slowly and for a moment the pressure was intense. He grit his teeth, breathing heavily. Trying to move evenly.

Finally, he slipped inside. Dorian saw white, the pleasure from Fitzwilliam's heat around him was so intense. He heard the man under him growl. Dorian lifted his oiled palm, and rubbed the excess into the small of the Inquisitor's back, soothing him, and reducing the slickness of Dorian's hand. When he had his faculties again, the mage grabbed Fitzwilliam's hips, firmly and began to move.

He moved with a slow even keel and felt Fitzwilliam clenching around him, gasping. Dorian was in heaven. He could meet the Maker this very moment and be satisfied. But Fitzwilliam was still tense. "Shhhh," Dorian purred, stroking the man's hip with his thumb. "You need to relax, Fitz." He felt him relax under his touch, tension melting. "Good man," he praised. Fitzwilliam shivered.  _Make a note of that!_  Dorian continued his slow rhythm, gasping and moaning when Fitzwilliam pulsated around him.

"More," Fitzwilliam finally gasped, rocking his hips back to meet Dorian's thrusts. The mage tightened his grip on the man's hips and began thrusting faster. For a moment he looked between them, at the place where they joined, and watched. But it was too much, he could feel his cock twitching for release.  _Not yet._  He looked away and redoubled his efforts. "Fuuuuuuck," Fitzwilliam drawled and Dorian smirked. The man preferred the more traditional swears of the Chantry, to resort to this vulgarity he must be out of his mind with pleasure.  _Good._

Dorian shifted, pressing the Inquisitor flush against the bed. Dorian had to hold himself up this way, and thrust, but it allowed him to be closer to the man and that was something he  _needed._  Dorian kissed Fitzwilliam's shoulders and back, his neck, and wished he could see the pleasure on the man's face fully, not just the profile. Because, void take him, that was already a sight.

Fitzwilliam was writhing under him, hips rocking, gasping moaning. The added friction of the bed against Fitzwilliam's manhood must have been too much because soon he was panting, "Doe. Doe, I'm so close."

Dorian used one hand to hold himself up and kept thrusting, the other smoothed back Fitzwilliam's hair and touched the warm skin of his back. "And I." Dorian said, voice husky, strained. "I'm going to come inside you, Fitz," he whispered.

"Oh Maker," Fitzwilliam gasped harder, writhing under him. Dorian could feel his muscles clenching and releasing, the mage's cock twitched,  _ached_. But he  _would_  wait for Fitzwilliam. A hand let go of the blankets and Fitzwilliam slipped it beneath him. It didn't take much. "Maker's  _breath_ ," he gasped before his body descended into spasm after spasm.

Dorian was helpless under the force of Fitzwilliam's arrival. His hips kept rocking out of reflex alone as he found his own pleasure and spilled into the man below him. He lost time then. Unsure of how long they both writhed in pleasure. Aware only of the fact that it was far more time than he would have expected. When his senses solidified, he found he had all but collapsed on top of Fitzwilliam. He scrambled to remove himself, but the Inquisitor's hand reached up and pressed him, urging him to stay. Dorian lifted some of his weight onto an elbow, but stayed, skin on skin, with the Inquisitor for a bit. He kissed Fitzwilliam's shoulder, and nuzzled it softly, breathing him in. But eventually he had to move.

Dorian rolled onto his back on the bed beside Fitzwilliam and stared at the ceiling. They were both breathing heavily, still. Fitzwilliam turned and looked at him. Dorian met his gaze. The smile he saw there, the look in those sharp blue eyes, the way his hand reached out, touching, it was all Dorian could have ever wanted. His heart was so full it ached. Dorian kissed Fitzwilliam, pouring all the things he could not say into it.

VVV

"About time," Fitzwilliam panted, naked, on the bed beside an equally naked mustached mage.

"I like to play hard to get," Dorian said with a little laugh as he leaned up onto his elbow and looked down at Fitzwilliam.

"And now?" The Herald asked.

Dorian shrugged, leaned over, kissed him softly and said "I'm gotten," against his lover's lips.

Dorian stroked the Inquisitor's cheek with the back of his fingers before standing up and going to the wash basin.

He tossed Fitzwilliam a few rags, then turned his back and conducted his own business. Once clean he returned to the bed and lay beside Fitzwilliam. Immediately Fitzwilliam put his hand out to touch him again, gently running his fingertips across the mage's chest.

They lay in companionable silence for some minutes. Fitzwilliam felt Dorian's tension growing under his touch until finally the mage stood without a word and walked to the middle of the room. He stopped there, hands on his hips, surveying. Fitzwilliam thought it was quite the view.

"I like your quarters," the mage said as dust flecks lit up around him like magic.  _Maker,_ Fitzwilliam thought,  _maybe it is magic._

"Do you, now?" He replied, amused.

Dorian turned, that view was also breathtaking. "Don't misunderstand, I'm not suggesting we venture into mutual domesticity. I just like your appointments." He came over and sat on the bed. "Not that I couldn't suggest some changes. Your taste is a little… austere." The smile was gone.

Fitzwilliam let his finger trace over the bare skin on Dorian's back. "Austere, huh?" He replied. "Have something on your mind?" Dorian looked so serious. But they had had the serious talk before… "You're having second thoughts."

"I'm just… curious where this goes, you and I," he said. "We've had fun. Perfectly reasonable to leave it here. Get on with the business of killing archdemons and such."

"Tell me what you want, Dorian," Fitzwilliam replied, sitting up beside him.

"All on me then?" Dorian asked unhappily.

"Hardly, I had my say. Now have yours." Fitzwilliam took Dorian's hand in his own and gently traced his fingertips across his palm.

"I…" the mage sighed. "I like you. More than I should. More than might be wise. We end it here, I walk away. I won't be pleased, but I'd rather now, than later. Later might be dangerous." He paused for a moment looking down at their entangled hands. "It might be… harder, then," he finally choked out.

"I want more than just fun, Dorian," Fitzwilliam replied seriously. Again, it seemed, he had rendered the mage speechless. "Twice in one night? My, I'm quite good."

Dorian smiled softly, then looked sad. "I was just expecting something… different."

"Different? Dorian, I told you how I felt before we…" Fitzwilliam gestured in the air.

"Yes,  _before_. Do you think I've not had a men say all manner of things to get me to bed them, Inquisitor?" The hurt in his voice was profound.

Fitzwilliam pulled his face to look at him. "I'm not mad at you for worrying this way, Dorian. I understand. You're not the only man who has had his heart broken." He smiled softly, Dorian smiled back. "But I am not those men. You don't have to feel foolish for having feelings for me."

"Hard habit to break," Dorian sighed with a small smile, the sadness was not gone, but it had diminished. It would have to do for now.

"I'm good at breaking things," Fitzwilliam offered with a laugh. That got a genuine smile.

Then Dorian lifted the Inquisitor's hand to his chest, pressed it close there. "Hopefully," he said, looking meaningfully into Fitzwilliam's eyes, "not  _everything_." It was a gesture Dorian might have mocked had Fitzwilliam done it. But the mage looked so vulnerable Fitzwilliam could only kiss him in response. After a moment Dorian pulled back, smirk and swagger back in place. "Care to…inquisit me again? I'll be more specific in my directions this time."

Fitzwilliam laughed, and Dorian smiled slyly. "Show off," the Inquisitor replied before Dorian moved in on him, pressing him gently back into the bed. Their skin pressed together, warm and soft. He clutched at the mage, his fingers pressing into all the dips and crevices. Dorian's skin was soft. His body was all firm muscle and soft curves under Fitzwilliam's fingers. He was beautiful and, for this moment, he was  _his._

AN: Happy New Year, everyone! My gift to you. I hope you enjoy and let me know how you like it. Have wonderful holidays, and be good;)

 


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 7

Dorian was rather enjoying this rare lull in action. Many missions were being undertaken to prepare to countermand Coryphaeus’s plans.  Fitzwilliam was, at this very moment, with the Inquisition Council planning to foil an assassination attempt on the Empress of Orlais. Dorian felt sure he’d be excluded from that one. No one wanted _him_ at court at the moment. The mage was scandal wrapped in gossip, inside a storm of shame. That probably shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did, just a little. He’d love to see Fitzwilliam in whatever getup Josephine concocted for the occasion.

Still, the rest of their ragged band had also been freed from duty and in a rare moment of truly pristine insanity they had all agreed to meet at the tavern for drinks. _All_ of them. Aside from the Chargers, who apparently had their own plans for the evening. The tavern keeper had pushed several square tables together in a corner for them, and was keeping a close eye. It was going well.

He and Vivienne were exchanging affectionate barbs and sipping wine. She’d paid for it, and it was quite good.

Iron Bull was flirting with everyone. Even Cole. Which was an odd sight indeed. The Qunari was asking the boy what his… “watchword” would be? Dorian’s eyes went wide. Surely they weren’t talking about what he thought they were. Varric barged in and saved the boy, which only brought Iron Bull’s rather personal questions onto him, but at least the dwarf could understand what it meant. Aaaaand Iron Bull was laughing at whatever he had said. Dorian was loath to have missed it.

Blackwall was sitting quietly. Sipping his ale and smiling. He was just happy to be among them. Even if Cullen was more like the type of man he would have normally shared a drink with. The Warden liked seeing them banding together. He seemed to have a special fondness for Cole and, of all people, Sera. He sat and watched like… not quite like a father. A fun uncle, maybe. The kind who would get you out of trouble and not tell your father, but would make you wish he had. Probably give some kind of “for your own good” speech too.

Cassandra was quiet as well. Which actually kind of surprised Dorian. The woman was… loquacious on a normal day but with a drink in her? Well it was only a matter of time before she started gushing to Varric about his books, or asking Iron Bull what a watchword was… dear lord, she was doing it now wasn’t she. Oh yes, certainly.  Between the Qunari’s leer and the _bright_ red the Seeker was turning there was no way she _hadn’t_ asked just that.

Solas was talking to Cole quietly, explaining some of the more… physical aspects of nature, when Iron Bull stood up.

He pointed to Vivienne. “Periwinkle,” he shouted. He turned pointing that finger at Blackwall next – “Petit-alms.” Then to Solas – “Savory.” Cassandra – “Satin.” Varric – “Bianca!” He laughed. “Just kidding. Paragon.” He turned to Sera – “Cookies,” he said with a smirk. Then turned to Dorain and said, “Venatori”. Dorian attempted to scowl, but it was as good a watchword as any. Better than most, in fact. Then Bull turned and looked at Cole. Cole looked back, smiling. “I just don’t know,” he said, flopping back onto the bench and making everyone on it bounce.

“Templar,” Cole said, so softly Dorian wasn’t sure if anyone heard him.

…

Really the night was going remarkably well. Dorian and Sera had been on several missions with the Inquisitor recently. He was pleased to find that she liked him, despite her intense dislike of mages. He liked her too. She was one to speak her mind. No matter what. And now was one of those moments.

Dorian and Solas had been having a conversation about the different methods they used to cast their magic and manipulate the fade. Vivienne had joined in and they were really having the nicest conversation.

“Ugh,” Sera said loudly. “There being three of you doesn’t make it normal!” She wasn’t being malicious, really, just indiscrete. It made Dorian smile at her intently for long moments until finally she said, “Stop staring at me.”

“I can't believe you're scared of magic, Sera.” Dorian said, sipping his wine. “It's a gift as mundane to me as your bow to you. Surely you see there's nothing to fear in a properly used tool?”

Sera rolled her eyes. “Tell that to all the "proper" mages wavin' their tools in peoples' faces!” She said loudly. Faces around the table began to shift. Blackwall hid a smile behind his mug. Iron Bull outright laughed, a big booming thing that shook the room. Sera glared at him. Varric looked like he might choke.

“There’s an image,” Dorian said under his breath.

“And What about Coryphemus? How many "proper tools" does he have under him?” She asked seriously.

Varric chuckled and choked out an amused, “Not hardly enough, if you ask me.” Before adding, “Might get him to loosen up.”

“And the rebel mages?” Sera pressed on, oblivious. “How many "proper tools" have they raised?”

“That’s not –“ Dorian said, choking on the attempt to keep a straight face. “I—I don’t think I can continue.” He said, laughing.

“Right,” she continued taking a drink from her mug.  “Well, I don't care how gifted you are. Don't cram it where it's not wanted.”

“Maker,” Vivienne chimed in. “How does she not _know?_ ”

Blackwall was laughing into his mug, the smile actually reached his eyes. All too rare. Cole looked, blank-faced, around at everyone laughing and said simply, “I’m lost.”

Dorian tried once more to have a real conversation with the girl about magic. “I’m wondering, Sera,” he said casually. “If familiarity might cure your suspicion of magic?”

“I don’t need to be familiar with your tool,” Sera spat. Literally, spat. On the floor.

Dorian snickered. “Please, stop saying “tool”. Consider how much magic can accomplish, for everyone. Magic exists to serve.”

Sera rolled her eyes. “I like you, Dorian,” she said with genuine affection. “Don’t ruin it.” Dorian smiled, shrugged, and raised his glass in acknowledgement. “You’re smart to surrender,” she said. “I’ve got a room-full of arrows.”

“Where _do_ you get all those arrows?” Dorian asked. “You have _hundreds_.”

Sera looked at him, very seriously and said, “From your arse.”

Dorian laughed heartily. “Well,” he said when he had managed to stem the stream into a chuckle. “My arse should open up a shop. It is, apparently, quite prolific.”

…

Dorian turned to Iron Bull, freeing the others for a short time. “I’ll never understand why Qunari warriors spend half their time running around bare-chested,” Dorian said.

Bull looked him over. “I thought _you’d_ appreciate that,” he joked.

“It’s stupid,” Dorian said, surprised to find himself actually annoyed about it. “They should wear armor.”

“You see a member of the Beresaad in full armor,” Bull said, suddenly serious. “You run. Because it's war.”

Dorian paused for a moment at the tone in Bull’s voice. But decided to press on, “They should wear armor all the time.”

“Then they’d have to invade everyone!” Iron Bull objected. “You’re so blood-thirsty!”

…

Apparently Dorian was making the rounds, first Sera, then Iron Bull, and now, Blackwall. Another person he had rubbed the wrong way at the beginning. In fact, now that he thought about it, he had rubbed pretty much everyone the wrong way. Odd. He was so handsome and charming. People should like him. But he and Blackwall, well they were just barely on friendly terms.

“I’ve been watching you, Dorian,” the Warden said meaningfully. Aaaand the man was _clearly_ very drunk.

“Is that so?” Dorian replied cautiously.

“The way you carry yourself when you use magic,” he clarified. The red on his cheeks had to have been from the ale, right?

“I am _very_ good at the whole magic thing,” Dorian said with a smirk.

“No,” Blackwall said. “It’s not that.” And Dorian looked at him quizzically. _It’s not? I think I’m quite good._ “You find joy in it. Not shame. And it shows.” The man was smiling at him.

“Well,” Dorian said cautiously. “Why be ashamed? Power should be respected. Not swept under the carpet.”

Blackwall nodded, taking a swig from his mug. “Something we southerners need to learn, perhaps.”

Dorain laughed. “Maybe you’re not a complete moron.” Dorian said playfully.

Blackwall scowled. “We were having a moment, and now you’ve ruined it,” he said gruffly. Dorian frowned, worried, until the Warden winked at him. Dorian clapped him on the back and moved on. Cassandra took his place beside the Warden. _That_ would _be an interesting combination._ Dorian thought. He’d have to pull some string there, see if there was any interest.

“Well,” he heard Blackwall saying to the seeker. “At least he’s stopped calling me that hairy lummox.” And Cassandra laughed, it was surprisingly feminine. Perhaps there was interest after all.

…

And now Iron Bull had him backed into a corner on the far side of the room. _Literally._ Dorian’s back was _in_ a corner. They’d come a long way from their first mission. Dorian remembered it well. He’d asked the Qunari if, since he was a mage, the man would prefer him bound and leashed. The giant of a man had tried to make light of it, saying he’d buy him dinner first. But Dorian was having none of it and said, “Hopefully before you sewed my mouth shut.” That had seemed to annoy Bull because he’d replied with a gruff, “depends on how long you keep yapping.” At this particular moment, even drunk as the both were, Dorian kind of missed the old days when Bull would threaten him.

Bull was leaning over him, one hand on the wall to his side. And he was getting… deep.

“I think I know what your problem is, Dorian,” he said.

“I have only the one?” Dorian replied playfully. Really what was the man on about? Dorian was actually growing to _like_ the Qunari.

“You see a man who's burned out, who left his people and entire life behind... and for what?” Bull said seriously.

Dorian blinked up at him. “You’re suggesting we’re… similar?”

Iron Bull suddenly looked sad. “Finding out you don’t fit in with the people who raised you?” He said. “Having to walk away from everything you grew up with? Knowing you’ve disappointed the ones who loved you. Burning out so hard you have to leave everything you’ve ever known and start over? I might know a bit about that.” Dorian couldn’t help it, he reached out and touched Bull’s arm. Bull smiled at him, a little half of a thing. Sad, but trying. “It takes a tough man to do it,” he said sincerely. “So, good on you.”

“Good on us,” Dorian said genuinely. 

That got a heartfelt smile from the Qunari. He grabbed Dorian about the shoulders and tousled his hair. “You big, ol’ fop,” he said affectionately, as Dorian tried to protest the crime which was being committed against his hair.

…

The night was winding down. Everyone was heading to their beds, slowly. Varric walked with him to the tower. They stood before the fire, just outside the door to the keep, warming their hands.

After a while Dorian spoke. “So what's your estimation, Varric? Think we could win?” Dorian needed some light banter with a good friend after all the recent events. If he and Varric were just a little closer maybe he’d have someone to talk to about Fitz. As it was just being able to trade barbed wit back and forth was a pleasure.

Varric gave a mock gasp. “You aren't asking me to give odds on our beloved Inquisitor's success?”

Dorian laughed. “What would that look like? Three to one?”

“In his favor?” Varric asked, actually contemplating it.

“After Corypheus pulled an archdemon out of his ass, _are you joking_?” Dorian asked.

“I’ll take those odds,” Fitzwilliam’s familiar voice floated up from behind him. Dorian turned and beamed to see him. It was just like him to take a three to one bet against himself as a challenge. It was endearing.

“This is why I adore him so,” Dorian sighed.

Fitzwilliam’s eyes went wide, looking to see the dwarf’s reaction. Varric laughed, clapped Dorian on the back and said, “I’m going to bed. See ya, Inquisitor.”

Fitzwilliam glared at him, but Dorian couldn’t be bothered to care. “You’re here,” he said, still quite drunk. “ _Why_ are you here? This isn’t the way to your rooms, Inquisitor.” Fitzwilliam’s face softened, and he smiled and shook his head.

“I need to talk with you,” he said. Fitzwilliam approached Dorian and touched his bare arm softly.

“You could at least bring me wine,” Dorian said suggestively, leaning in close. “Loosens the tongue – so to speak.”

“I suspect you’ve had a bounty of wine _already_ ,” Fitzwilliam said gently. “Okay, so I was hoping to steal a moment alone with you,” he confessed.

Dorian laughed boisterously, it echoed off the cold stone walls of the empty hall. “‘I need to talk to you’, he says.” Dorian’s voice dripped affection and amusement and he let the Inquisitor lead him away from the keep and toward Fitzwilliam’s quarters. “You have but to ask, _Amatus_.” Dorian said suggestively.

“Oh, come now,” Fitzwilliam said as he closed the outer door and helped the mage up the balcony-hall stairs to the inner chamber. “You’re hardly in a state for that.”

Dorian waved his arms wildly. “I’m not _that_ drunk, Fitz. It’s just the wine was very fine and everyone was having such a good time…”

Fitzwilliam opened the inner door and ushered Dorian inside. “Yes, such a good time that we started placing bets. On us _losing_.”

Dorian had to look to make sure Fitzwilliam was joking and not mad. But to be honest his perception wasn’t very sharp at the moment so he ended up saying, “You’re not mad are you?” He sounded like a small boy who’d accidentally broken his mother’s vase.

Fitzwilliam smiled and ran his fingers through the mage’s hair. “Do I look mad?”

“I can’t tell,” Dorian whined. “It’s why I asked.”

The mage sat heavily on Fitzwilliam’s bed and began, attempting, to remove his boots. _Maker these laces are tricky._ “I’m not mad, Doe,” Fitzwilliam said, kneeling beside him and helping him off with his boots. Once that feat was accomplished Dorian looked down at the Inquisitor.

“How did the planning go?” He asked.

Fitzwilliam sighed. “It took forever, but we’re ready. We’ll leave in the morning.”

“We?” Dorian asked, startled.

“I’m sorry,” Fitzwilliam said. “I guess I just assumed. You know how these sorts of affairs go, and you have a good eye for intrigue. You seemed a natural choice. But if you’d prefer not to I understand.”

Dorian flopped onto his back on the bed giggling. Fitzwilliam was forced to stand, remove his boots, and climb into the bed beside the mage. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at him.

“I thought you’d want me to stay,” Dorian said, after the giggles died down. “I thought you’d leave the pariah at home. Take the Qunari, maybe. Less embarrassing.” Fitzwilliam furrowed his brow.

“Why would you think a thing like that?” Fitzwilliam asked seriously.

Dorian felt sad, suddenly. “Because of the secret?” He said.

Fitzwilliam furrowed his brow again. “What secret, Dorian. You’re not making sense.”

“This secret,” Dorian said before leaning up and kissing him. It was hot and needy and Dorian recognized it for what it was. A grasping attempt to fill a hole gouged out by insecurity. It was familiar. This is how hit had been with other men. It made him feel a bit ill. Or maybe that was the wine.

When they broke Fitzwilliam made it a point to hold his gaze. It lasted so long that it was becoming uncomfortable. Finally, he said, gesturing with his hand, “Dorian, do you think you’re… we’re… this is a secret?” Dorian looked away but Fitzwilliam’s hand came to gently guide him back.  “No, Dorian. Tell me. Because if I have… if my actions, something I said or did, have lead you to believe that then I _need_ to correct it.”

It was Dorian’s turn to feel confused. “No,” he said, gently caressing Fitzwilliam’s face. “Not you.”

“Good,” Fitzwilliam sighed but he looked sad. “But that’s what you’ve learned about relationships, right? They can only exist in secret?” Dorian nodded, dropping his eyes again. Silence filled the room. _Maker, I’m emotional when I’ve been drinking,_ he scoffed inwardly. “Dorian,” Fitzwilliam’s voice pulled his gaze back. “We’re being discrete, is all. If you have someone you want to tell about us, you can do that. I’d say you could tell everyone, but this is a little new to be making formal announcements, don’t you think?” Fitzwilliam laughed softly.

Dorian smiled. _This is more than I ever dared dream._ “This is more than I ever dared dream,” he said aloud. _Apparently I’ve no filter now._

“Dream bigger, Dorian,” Fitzwilliam said before he leaned down and captured the mage’s lips in a smoldering, sensual kiss. 

 

AN: It's a wee bit short, but the next one /should/ make up for it.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 8

_ Previously on Birthrights: _

_Dorian smiled. This is more than I ever dared dream. “This is more than I ever dared dream,” he said aloud. Apparently I’ve no filter now._

_“Dream bigger, Dorian,” Fitzwilliam said before he leaned down and captured the mage’s lips in a smoldering, sensual kiss._

__

It was nothing like the kiss Dorian had given a moment ago. It was passionate, full of desire, but it wasn’t empty. Fitzwilliam seemed to have the amazing ability to evoke emotion with mere touch. The Inquisitor didn’t need to say anything for him to feel the affection, the want, the caring… it was overwhelming. Dorian positively melted under it.

They struggled out of their clothing, suddenly finding even that was too much a barrier. Dorian longed to touch Fitzwilliam, skin on skin. He was feeling so many things, with his inhibitions lower, inebriated as he was, but he didn’t have the words for them. Or, more accurately, he could not bring himself to say them. So, instead, he let his fingers wander over the long, smooth spans of skin revealed to him. He felt the curve of the Inquisitor’s hip, the definition of his arms. He reveled in the way Fitzwilliam’s body seemed to rise up to meet his touch, unable to wait the half-a-moment until Dorian’s touch arrived.

It was like all their other shared nights, in that it was nothing like nights with men he had known before. The past was littered with lust. Lust was easy. Easily felt. Easily satisfied. And then you moved on. And that was easy too. Every night he spent with Fitzwilliam… he left more of himself behind. Whatever they were sharing, whatever they were feeling, it was not easy. It was complex. And when the night was over, when lust was slaked, Dorian was left wanting more. Not more pleasure. More of Fitzwilliam. Going back to his rooms was hard. He didn’t go every time. But he could count the number of times he’d awoken beside the warmth of the Inquisitor on one hand. And even then he ached when they parted. Some of it was the uncertainty of the world in which they lived, not knowing if they would both make it out alive. Not knowing if this parting would be goodbye. But Dorian was starting to realize it was more than that. And that terrified him.

“Dorian?” Fitzwilliam’s soft plea called him back to the moment. His hands had been wandering aimlessly and had apparently trailed low, skittering over Fitzwilliam’s pubis, occasionally brushing his length ever so slightly. It wasn’t until he’d returned his attention that he realized Fitzwilliam was whimpering, writhing. The bed linens were fisted in his hand and he was wringing them. Dorian, wine addled and unfocused, found himself wondering why Fitzwilliam was so… passive. Generally, Dorian took the lead, but Fitzwilliam still made his desires known, still participated. But for some reason tonight he just lay, waiting.

Dorian stopped his actions altogether and looked at Fitzwilliam’s face. Which was pleasantly amusing. The Inquisitor’s eyes shot open at the sudden lack of contact and stared at the mage. Dorian stared back. “What’s wrong?” Dorian asked.

“What’s wrong!?” Fitzwilliam practically yelled. “You teased me for _ever_ and then just… stopped!”

Dorian shook his head, seriously. “No. You aren’t participating. Why aren’t you participating?”

“I… I am,” Fitzwilliam protested. “Here I am. Naked. _Being teased._ ”

Dorian shook his head again, and became dizzy. _Should probably stop doing that_. “You were just lying there. You’re _willing_ but you’re… not doing anything.”

A look of understanding passed over Fitzwilliam’s face and he looked away. “I..” he began softly. “I didn’t want to…take advantage.”

He ended on such a soft note that it took Dorian a moment to understand the words. “Take advantage?” He asked, brain still sloughing along.

“Well,” he said softly. “You’re quite drunk. And not quite able to make unaffected decisions…” He was speaking so delicately. Walking on eggshells.

Dorian stared blankly for a long time, and Fitzwilliam began to fidget under his gaze. Then Dorian laughed, loudly, and Fitzwilliam jumped in surprise, which, in turn, only made the mage laugh harder. Dorian fell down beside the befuddled Inquisitor. His arm fell across his chest and he pulled him into a side-hug, chuckling affectionately against his bicep.

Finally, Dorian propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at Fitzwilliam, his smile beaming. “You are daft, delicious, wonderful, and far too good,” Dorian said before kissing him firmly. The embrace slowly melted into something long and warm and the passion began building again. When he broke the kiss he let his hand wander low, grasping Fitzwilliam’s length in his hand. The Inquisitor moaned softly. “I was rather hoping I would have corrupted you, just a little, by now, Fitz,” he said, his voice rough with desire.

“I, I just,” Fitzwilliam stopped in the middle to sigh, his hips rocking gently as Dorian’s hand moved. “I just wanted to make sure you wanted this. That you wouldn’t wake up in the morning feeling regretful.”

Dorian redoubled his efforts, his lips descending on the soft flesh at the crux of Fitzwilliam’s neck where it met his shoulder. The long, low groan he got in response was _very_ encouraging. He brushed the pad of his thumb across the slick tip of Fitzwilliam’s cock playfully, and heard all the air leave the man at once. “How could you think such a thing?” Dorian asked in between kisses and tender bites. “Me, not want you? Maker, Fitz, I wake in the morning and I want you. I go to bed at night and want you. I see you walking around Skyhold, or fighting demons, or strategizing, or practicing with those daggers of yours and I _want_ you.” He bit a tender spot on the Inquisitor’s neck to punctuate his thought and Fitzwilliam squirmed and gasped and panted under him. Dorian’s hand was slick with Fitzwilliam’s arousal and those brief moments had been enough to reduce the Inquisitor, a man of power and influence, to a whimpering, wriggling, pliable pile.

Dorian pulled his hand back and slid his body away from where it was pressed against Fitzwilliam. He kept his mouth close to the man’s ear. His own breathing, he found, was giving away his desire. It may have been slightly less obvious than the hard length of him, which until a moment ago had been pressed firmly against the Inquisitor’s hip. Fitzwilliam was pleading, softly, under his breath and Dorian wondered if the man even knew. “Roll over,” he said in a whisper. It was not a command, it was a promise, and Fitzwilliam seemed to have picked up on it.

Fitzwilliam had been right about one thing – Dorian’s inhibitions _had_ been impaired by the drink. _If he’s determined to be passive then why not make good use of it?_ He thought wickedly.

The Inquisitor had rolled over, and set himself on his hands and knees. Dorian knelt beside him, reached underneath, and touched him with just the tips of his fingers. The soft brush made Fitzwilliam’s hips buck forward, and he let out a soft keening of frustration. To make matters worse Dorian got out of the bed completely and walked across the room. He could feel Fitzwilliam’s eyes on him, but neither of them said a word. Dorian returned with the chair which usually sat behind the Inquisitor’s desk. He placed it about a stride away from the bed, and then sat in it. Fitzwilliam stared silently. Dorian locked eyes with him and reached down, taking himself in his hand. A sharp hiss escaped from between his lips at the intensity of the action. He’d been far more excited than he realized. Slowly, without looking away from the sight that was Fitzwilliam on his knees on the bed waiting for him, Dorian began to stroke himself.

Even from here Dorian could see Fitzwilliam’s pupils dilate – black disks with thin rims of brilliant blue. Fitz was first to break eye contact as his eyes dropped lower, watching Dorian’s hand moving over his length. He licked his lips absentmindedly. Dorian could see the Inquisitor’s cock twitching as he watched, eager. Dorian did not put on a show. He merely sat there touching himself, waiting for Fitzwilliam to speak. It took longer than anticipated.

“Doe?” His voice was so soft, as if speaking were breaking some rule. Dorian did not speak, but raised an eyebrow acknowledging the question. Fitzwilliam licked his lips again. “Should I be doing something?” Dorian just shrugged and continued his actions. “Can…” Fitzwilliam began uncertainly. “Can I touch myself?” Dorian cocked his head to the side for a moment, as if thinking, then nodded.

Fitzwilliam used one hand to hold himself up as the other reached beneath and wrapped around his manhood. He moaned loudly, his head falling forward and hanging limply. He started slow but soon his hand was moving faster and he was gasping. But his arm started shaking and gave out. He fell onto his face, whining in protest.

Finally, Dorian spoke, “Sit up, and continue.”

Fitzwilliam scrambled to sit on the edge of the bed and began again. This was a better view, certainly, and Dorian enjoyed it immensely as he stroked himself. Fitzwilliam’s shaft was red and wet and his hips were straining up to meet his hand, unable to keep still. The Inquisitor’s head fell back, eyes closed, and he panted. Dorian took the opportunity this afforded, moved off the chair, and onto his knees on the carpet just before the bed where Fitzwilliam sat. _Now this is a view_ , he thought wildly. He was no longer touching himself, enraptured by the primal noises the man before him made and the way his body strained for release.

And suddenly Dorian couldn’t take not touching him for another moment. He reached up and pulled Fitzwilliam’s hand away. The Inquisitor’s eyes shot open and he looked down, wild-eyed. _Maker, the man looks terrified_. Dorian tried to make the brief glace he spared him reassuring, before he took Fitzwilliam’s member in hand, and leaned over, wrapping his lips around the head of it. _Andraste’s ass,_ it was hot in his mouth, he could feel it twitching, throbbing on the edge of release. So, mercifully, Dorian didn’t take his time. He drew Fitzwilliam’s length as deeply into his mouth as he could. Moving his tongue as his head bobbed, laving it with his warm mouth. That was all it took for Fitzwilliam to completely lose control. Dorian had taken him too far.

The Inquisitor buried a hand in Dorian’s inky-black locks and clutched the strands in his fingers. His hand pulled the mage’s head closer as his hips thrust up to meet his mouth. Dorian had never seen the Inquisitor so completely out of control, reduced to his most base of instincts. It was awe-inspiring. He had only a moment to revel in it, however, as soon Fitzwilliam let out a roar of sound and his hips jerked wildly. Dorian felt the warmth of the Inquisitor’s arrival sliding down his throat and he took advantage of Fitzwilliam’s lack of control. He pulled his head back slightly, despite the hand still fisted in his hair, and allowed Fitzwilliam’s seed to fill his mouth. He breathed through his nose and shuddered as the scent of Fitzwilliam’s sex invaded his head, clouding his vision. Coupled with the taste of him, it was overwhelming and Dorian felt dizzy with it.

He suckled gently as Fitzwilliam came down. He could hear the man panting heavily, winded from the force of his arrival, but Dorian did not pull away. Soon his actions had the Inquisitor writhing under him, his hands trying to pull him off. Somewhere Dorian heard him saying “Please” and “Dorian” over and over but still the mage kept on. Finally, the intensity of the action faded, and Fitzwilliam was moaning again, feeling renewed pleasure as Dorian’s mouth tended him. Dorian waited until the man was good and hard again, whimpering and writhing under his touch, and then stood, breaking contact. Dorian looked up at Fitzwilliam who, in turn, was looking down at Dorian with wonder and questions in his eyes.

Dorian stood and walked around to the other side of the bed. He lay on his back, toward the middle. Fitzwilliam’s eyes never left him, so he was watching when Dorian motioned for him to come to him. Surprisingly, the Inquisitor did not need instruction at this moment. He wordlessly climbed atop the mage, straddling his hips. Dorian’s mouth went dry at the sight. This was something they had not done before. Truth be told they had had precious little time to really indulge in one another like this. Often they found their pleasure with mouth and touch and then fell asleep in a puddle of exhaustion or parted for the night . This chance was thanks to the day of preparation they’d had today. This ability to stay, and savor the moment, it was all too rare. It was precious.

Fitzwilliam took the vial from Dorian’s hands. That was another surprise. The mage thought he had been rather sneaky when he grabbed it. “How did you…” he began to ask.

The Inquisitor smirked and poured a little of the oil into his hand. He replaced the cork and set it aside before wrapping his hand around Dorian’s length. Dorian moaned at the contact and it took him a moment to hear the words Fitzwilliam was saying through the hum of pleasurable electricity he was eliciting with his hand. “I’m a thief,” he said, amused as he stroked. “I’m training to be an assassin. I use my speed and cunning in battle. I pick locks and pockets. And you expected I wouldn’t notice?”

Dorian shuddered. When he spoke his voice shook with the effort, “I had thought I had you _reasonably_ distracted.”

Fitzwilliam leaned forward, pressing his hand and Dorian’s manhood with it, between them. He whispered, “Yes. Reasonably.” And kissed the man below him. His hips rocked, his hand squeezed firmly, but gently, and suddenly Dorian found himself longing for the man who had been passive. All the teasing and coaxing he had done to Fitzwilliam had been wonderful, but he was still aching with his need for release and the Inquisitor… well, Fitz, had been satisfied once. He could now afford to make Dorian wait.

Dorian broke the kiss and arched his back, moaning and panting. “Please,” he realized he was saying. “Please, Fitz. I… Void take me…”

He felt Fitzwilliam lean back up, felt the slide of him as he moved his hips forward, felt him moving his hand to his backside, and drawing Dorian to where he most wanted to be. This, at least, had been coming easier with time. And that was lucky, because Dorian was well past the point of being able to wait as Fitzwilliam made himself ready. Still, the man didn’t impale himself on his manhood. He pressed him to where he belonged, lifted himself, and lowered. _Slowly._ Achingly slowly. “No, Dorian,” he heard him saying through deep breaths. “The Void will _not_ take you. _I_ will. You’re mine.” His words, primal and ringing with truth, made the mage quake.

Dorian was beyond thought. Feeling Fitzwilliam opening to take him in, the heat enveloping him, the closeness, the tremor of the muscles in the Inquisitor’s legs making their way through his body to his shaft. It left Dorian unable to process the words he was hearing. Fitzwilliam could have told him there were nuggs flying over Skyhold and Dorian would have nodded and grabbed his hips as he did now, guiding him, part of him fearful that he would leave or dissolve like mist. But he didn’t. He settled himself as close to Dorian as two people could be, and Dorian was stunned. He opened his eyes and looked at the man above him. His face positively _glowed_. It may have been the firelight, but to Dorian the Inquisitor looked like a man out of legend – alight with the fire of Andraste.

Fitzwilliam opened his eyes too, and for a moment they locked gazes. It was more than just the pleasure Dorian was feeling. The way Fitzwilliam was looking at him. The intensity and emotion. The intimacy. It was all screaming something from deep within him. He just couldn’t quite hear. Like a buzz in the back of your mind when you had forgotten something important. He’d been pushing that sound aside for weeks and now, now it welled up inside him. Fitzwilliam smiled softly and he could almost hear it. He reached out, trailing his fingers across Dorian’s stomach and the mage could hear the whisper of it. It was so close. It was big and good and warm and… terrifying. He squashed it down, tightened his grip on Fitzwilliam’s hips and thrust upward hard.

Seated within him as he was it was not a slick slide. Which was for the best. He had been so exuberant that such a thrust may have hurt Fitzwilliam and Dorian would never do so intentionally. But it still made him moan with pleasure. Fitzwilliam’s head rolled back and he closed his eyes as he began rocking his hips. “Maker, Fitz,” Dorian found himself groaning. “You feel amazing.”

Fitzwilliam did not respond. He was often quiet during their moments together. Perhaps he felt awkward about talking, perhaps he simply preferred to experience and not speak, but occasionally, Dorian could not help himself. After all the teasing, the show Fitzwilliam had put on, having him in his mouth and swallowing his essence… Dorian was already at the breaking point. It was taking everything he had not to slam up into the man until he broke. And talking was a way of distracting himself. It also had the added benefit of making the Inquisitor flush and shudder.

“I’ve never feel as good as I do when I’m inside you, Fitz.” He kept talking as he slid his hands across the muscles in Fitzwilliam’s thighs, squeezing and scratching. “This is so different from anything I’ve ever had. You’re so sweet, so willing, so _eager._ ” And he was realizing that even with the talking he was still going to break. And soon. “Look at me,” Dorian said firmly. Fitzwilliam did so without hesitation. “Touch yourself.”

“Dorian, I,” Fitzwilliam began but Dorian shook his head, grabbed his hand and lead it to where he wanted it.

“There,” he said. He moaned loudly as Fitzwilliam did as asked. The man’s shaft had been a bit soft when he started, but his touch was quickly changing that. He moaned and gasped and rocked his hips more quickly. Dorian was going out of his mind with desire. “I loved watching you, Fitz,” he said. His eyes were wide as he watched the sight before him and felt Fitzwilliam sliding up and then pulling him inside. “Sitting in the chair, touching myself, looking at you on the bed ready for me, waiting.” His hips began rocking in time with Fitzwilliam’s efforts. “And then taking you in my mouth, feeling you spill inside me. _Tasting_ you.” He growled. His nails dug into the flesh of Fitzwilliam’s thighs but he couldn’t help it. “Maker, you make me feel so…unh,” he paused breathing heavily. There were a dozen words fighting to leave his lips. _Powerful. Desired. Helpless. Protected. Loved._ He shoved it down. He couldn’t deal with that right now.

In the end, it was Fitzwilliam who finished the sentence and it was exactly right. “Cherished,” he whispered.  Dorian found he was sitting up, reaching for Fitzwilliam, grabbing his shoulders, pulling him close and kissing him deeply.

“Maker, yes.” He whispered against Fitzwilliam’s lips. “That. Cherished.” He was startled to realize that they had shifted. Fitzwilliam was sitting in his lap now, and they embraced. Dorian buried his face against Fitzwilliam’s shoulder, rocking his hips.

Fitzwilliam’s breath was hot and warm, gasping, “Please.”

“What are you asking me for,” Dorian sighed, amused. “I’ve been waiting on you.”

And then Fitzwilliam was rocking back and forth wildly, clutching around Dorian’s cock. The mage reached between them and took Fitzwilliam’s shaft in his hand. A firm grasp combined with the rocking of their hips and Dorian thrusting inside him, that was all it took. Dorian felt Fitzwilliam’s entire body shudder, the sticky warmness of his release splashed them both and finally, Dorian let the roaring fire inside him go. He emptied himself into Fitzwilliam, his entire body convulsing, unable to control any part of his actions. “Fitz, Fitz, ah!” He couldn’t tell if he was screaming or sighing. He felt the tingle of electricity in the air. At any other moment that indication of his magic would have worried him. But through it all, Dorian could do nothing but cling to the man, pulling his am close as possible. Still, it was not close enough.

They were both spent, clutching each other despite the thin sheen of sweat they had each acquired. Dorian pressed his nose against Fitzwilliam’s neck nuzzling and kissing. They stayed like that until their breathing slowed, and when it had Fitzwilliam pulled back and kissed Dorian sweetly for long moments.

They parted reluctantly, separating and washing up. Fitzwilliam climbed into bed, pulled the covers back, and beckoned Dorian. The mage, who had been making his way to his clothing, looked over and raised a brow in question. “Stay,” Fitzwilliam said softly. Dorian climbed in without objection and pulled Fitzwilliam close. He looked into his eyes affectionately and then punched him, gently, in the ribs. “Oi!” Fitzwilliam said laughing. “What was that for?”

Dorian took his hand and brushed his fingers along the seemingly ever-present stubble at the Inquisitor’s jawline. “For thinking I could ever regret a single moment with you,” he said tenderly. Fitzwilliam smiled, his eyes became watery. He buried his face in Dorian’s chest and squeezed him gently. And soon the night took its toll, easing them both into dreams.

…

When Dorian woke it was the cold grey of early morning he saw outside the window. It was the coldest time of day and the fire died long ago, the room would be freezing. Fitzwilliam was a warm pool beside him and that made it easy to find an excuse to stay in bed. Dorian turned on his side to face him. The worry lines weren’t visible when he was sleeping. Dorian smiled, touched him softly and then turned away as he did every time he found himself asleep beside the man. He wasn’t sure why. He told himself it was strange to watch people sleep. Or that it was boring. Or that he had better things to do. But he knew the truth of it – he wasn’t ready for those moments. He blinked, realizing he was a little parched but otherwise no worse for the wear and _that_ was a blessing. Because, as he’d just now remembered, today they would undertake a journey to the Orlesian Court to stop an assassination. _Good thing Fitz has been training to kill people for money,_ Dorian thought wryly.

Just then Dorian saw a light at the end of the room. It was moving toward them.

“Inquisitor,” Leliana’s soft Orlesian drawl drifted over. “I know it’s very early but we’re preparing to leave…” She stopped, having arrived at the bed. Dorian lay still, unable to do anything but pull the blanket to his chin and look up at the Spymaster with wide eyes. She stared at the mage for a moment. Her eyes crinkled, she smiled smugly. “I see my informants have reliable information,” she said softly. Damn women was now trying to have a conversation with him, _without_ waking the man she had come here specifically to wake. Dorian glared at her. She giggled. _Giggled_. “Good for you. For both of you,” she said sincerely, and Dorian could not help but feel a little touched. _Mortified_ like a child with his hand in the pie, but touched just the same.

She leaned over and touched Fitzwilliam’s shoulder, he turned toward the touch and blinked his eyes open. “Dorian?” He asked sleepily. Dorian groaned and slid a little farther under the bedding, just able to see.

Leliana, to her credit only smirked. _No giggles for the bloody Inquisitor!_ “No, your worship,” she said softly. “It’s quite early but we’ll be departing soon. All of your things have been accounted for, but you’ll need to be up and dressed.”

Fitzwilliam groaned and covered his head with a pillow in response.

Leliana took the pillow and threw it at the end of the bed. “You can sleep in the carriage,” she said firmly. Then she straightened and returned her gaze to Dorian. “I’ll leave him to you,” she said. There was a dangerous twinkle in her eye before she turned, walking away. “You seem like you can handle him.”

And that was it. That was more than Dorian could take. He pulled the bedding over his head entirely and disappeared in embarrassment. 

 

AN: I started this as a way to lengthen chapter 7. And… it seems to have gotten away from me a bit. So, bonus chapter!

Thanks for all the support.

Enjoy, and as always feel free to drop a line!


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

 

 

Chapter 9

Fitzwilliam spotted Dorian from across the garden. He stood there, looking uninterested, sipping from a crystal glass, swaying slightly back and forth, betraying his enjoyment of the soft string music which floated out to the green growth and marble sculptury. Maker help him, the man looked good in that uniform. Red was most definitely his color. He’d have to loop around and get a look at his backside in those trousers… _You’re here to stop an assassination!_ He reprimanded himself and attempted to approach casually. There was a circle of space around the mage. Fitzwilliam tried to hide the frown that turned the corners of his mouth downward. Apparently it was as the Inquisitor had feared, Dorian’s reputation had proceeded him.

Fitzwilliam watched as Dorian’s face broke into a dazzling smile. He’d been spotted, and the mage raised his glass of ruby wine in welcome. “This is all so familiar,” Dorian said when Fitzwilliam had come close enough. “I half expect my mother to materialize from the crowd and criticize my manners.”

“Flame of Andraste,” Fitzwilliam said with a laugh. “What if your mother were actually here? Where would we be _then_?”

“Short one mage, after he’s dragged out by his earlobe,” Dorian said with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He wasn’t completely kidding, it seemed.

“I’m having difficulty picturing that,” Fitzwilliam said honestly. Dorian looked so at ease here, so in his element. The Inquisitor was having trouble not simply beaming at the man in adoration. He was a sight to behold.

Dorian looked at him out the corner of his eye slyly and smiled. “Picture me as a young boy of five years, then,” he suggested. “She certainly always has.”

Fitzwilliam’s smiled turned into a full-fledged grin as he did just that. “Maker’s breath,” he said in a whisper, “that’s the most adorable thing I have ever imagined.” And then his breath caught, picturing a young boy with Dorian’s wavy raven locks and mischievous smile. It came in a flash, vivid, sharp, and then it vanished as he blinked.

Dorian’s cheeks flushed and he hid behind his wine glass, drinking deeply. “Alright, that’s enough of that,” he said, glancing around.

Fitzwilliam shook his head slightly, returning to the present. Dorian’s blush made his smile return. “Fine,” he said grinning like a cat in the cream. “Is this how the elite of Tevinter carry on?”

Dorian nodded solemnly. “You could _almost_ mistake this for a soiree in the Imperium, yes. It’s the same double-dealing, elegant poison, and canapés… only it’s lacking a few sacrificial slaves and some blood magic. But the night _is_ still young.” He finished with a straight face.

Maker, Fitzwilliam genuinely couldn’t tell if the mage was kidding. He might have been completely serious. There was a twinkle is those grey-blue eyes, but it might have been at the look on Fitzwilliam’s face as much as anything else.

The Inquisitor swallowed heavily and changed the subject. “Have you noticed anything I should know about?”

“Other than an overabundance of lavender perfume?” Dorian asked dismissively. “No, nothing extraordinary.”

Fitzwilliam nodded in agreement. They were _all_ wearing it. Even him. Josephine had told him it was in fashion this season, she had _insisted_. He’d given in, and he dared any man, woman, or beast in Thedas to fault him for it. The woman could be frightening. “I appreciate that you were willing to come here,” he said, sipping his own drink. It looked and smelled like the spice punch, but it was missing the alcohol. Leliana’s work, and a _clever_ bit of it. Everyone would be watching him, and he’d had several glasses already. It wouldn’t be long until he would step up the act – stumble a bit more, slur a word or two, laugh just a little too loudly. It would loosen tongues and get him out of any serious suspicion if he was found wandering where he ought not be.

“And expose myself to all this exquisite finery and exotic wine?” Dorian bantered. The corner of his mouth tipper upward on one side, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh yes, such hardship.”

Fitzwilliam forced a smile. It was hard to watch Dorian put on a brave face for him, of all people, but he pressed on. “Not everyone is likely to be friendly,” he said glancing at the noticeably empty space around them, “is all I meant.”

Dorian grimaced and nodded in agreement, the façade falling away for a moment. “It’s true,” he said, sipping. “You’d think I smelled of cabbages, the way they wrinkle their noses. Of course maybe it’s that I’m not wearing the right perfume.” Fitzwilliam eyed the mage, worry showing. “It’s of no concern, Fitzwilliam, truly,” he said softly. “But thank you.”

The Inquisitor could not help the tender, affectionate, smile that burst through just then. It was such a victory for the mage. Dorian had been… himself, with Fitzwilliam even if it had only lasted a fleeting instant. “Well, don’t wear yourself out with all this mingling,” Fitzwilliam said in a low, sultry voice. “I expect a dance before this is over.”

Dorian was mid-sip when Fitzwilliam said it. And to his credit he didn’t sputter on his wine. His eyebrows did go up, however. “Dancing with the evil magister, in full view of every noble in Orlais? _How shocking!_ ” He countered. _This_ was like a dance. Void take him, the man was clever with that quick wit. Keeping up meant keeping on his toes every bit as much as a waltz did.

“They’ll live,” Fitzwilliam said simply.

“You say that now,” Dorian replied in a whisper loaded with intention. “But if you can find me ten silk scarves, I’ve got a dance that will _really_ shock them.” Fitzwilliam opened his mouth and closed it. The mage had won this round. And he knew it. “I’ll be ready for your signal.” Dorian said with a smile. “Provided this spicy punch isn’t as strong as it seems.”

Fitzwilliam came up with the only retort he could manage, “Well, do try not to get _too_ drunk while I’m gone.”

Dorian let out and over-exaggerated, long-suffering sigh. “You ask _so_ much of me.” Fitzwilliam nodded and walked away.

 

Dorian turned to the side as the Advisor on the Occult passed him to leave the balcony. He watched her absurd skirts swish back and forth with narrowed eyes. He didn’t trust that woman. Maker only knew what she could have been saying to Fitzwilliam alone on that balcony. _I am_ not _upset that he was clearly charming her_ , he told himself. That was his job, after all. Dorian walked out onto the balcony, breathing in the brisk night air… well, as brisk as it got in Orlais. Fitzwilliam was leaning on the railing, looking out into nothing. For a moment Dorian was distracted by the view.

The moon was full and unobscured tonight, the light of it brilliant. It hid nothing, silhouetting Fitzwilliam’s figure. The formal uniform fit him perfectly, leaving very little to the imagination. And Dorian had the information he needed to fill in the blanks. The muscles of his back would be taut beneath that red jacket. His waist warm and fitting perfectly into his palm, once the blue sash and gold belt were pulled away. The high collar was troublesome for the kisses Dorian wanted to trail down his neck. But even with these vivid images, what Dorian was feeling was not lust. His mind was trying to tell him something, by showing him the beauty of the man before him. It had to mean something that his instinct was comfort and companionship.

The mage looked again, examining Fitzwilliam more closely.  His shoulders were slumped. His gaze far off. He leaned on the marble rail, not as a man relaxing, but as one who needed help holding himself up. He couldn’t quite get a read on the Inquisitor’s mood from here but that was hardly his normal posture. There was an extra weight on his Inquisitor tonight, and the man was having trouble shouldering it.

“There was an ancient dowager looking for you. Said she had twelve daughters. I told her you left already,” he said with his usual swagger. “You can thank me later or now.” He leaned onto the rail, joining Fitzwilliam and turning to see his face for the first time. He’d been clean-shaven, for once, when the night had begun, but now the stubble was shadowing his face. It was worn, heavy, his brow was furrowed, the corners of his mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown. “But you look lost in thought,” he said with some concern. “Something on your mind?” Fitzwilliam did not often need much prompting to open up.

And he looked like he might. But when he spoke all that came out was, “I’m just tired. Tonight was… long.”

Dorian knew it was more than that. Things had hardly gone as planned. Lives were lost. The Empress lived, but Fitzwilliam was not the kind of man to value one life over another just because one was royal and the “rightful” empress. Were it up to him he would have found another way to deal with the Grand Duke. It was one of the very best things about the man, the very reason they needed _him_ leading this Inquisition. But it was chipping away at him. Dorian felt a throbbing ache in his chest. He wanted to reach out and rub it, massage it away. Regardless, he smiled at Fitzwilliam.

“There you go,” the mage said fondly, “thinking you can save _everyone._ Some people make bad choices, Fitz. Don’t dwell.” He reached out and touched the Inquisitor’s hand lightly. A bold move in so public a place. His heart skipped a beat from touching him like this, even if they both had gloves on. There was just something about being with him, being allowed to touch him... no more than that. Somewhere, in the quiet hidden part of his mind, Dorian knew Fitzwilliam _wanted_ his touch.  Wanted to see his smile and share in it.

Dorian wanted to make it right, to tell Fitzwilliam that he’d done all he could. He’d done his best when some men would have stood by and done nothing. But Dorian didn’t think any of that would be helpful just now. There was still a party to get through. The Inquisitor needed cheering, not sobering philosophical talk. That could wait until later.

So… Dorian laughed. “You _won_. You saved the day. _Literally._ The day is saved! You should be celebrating. Enjoy yourself while you can. We don’t get many moments like this in between fighting archdemons and dragons, Fitz.” He gestured enthusiastically, and the Inquisitor mustered a small smile and nod of acknowledgement, but when he was done Fitzwilliam still leaned over the rail, hunched, looking drawn and tired. Dorian felt for the man. What could he do? “I know,” he said in what he hoped was a playful and convincing tone. “What you need is a distraction. I have just the thing.” The mage stood, and Fitzwilliam followed suit looking at him. The man was intrigued. _Good._ Dorian held out his hand, half-bowing, gallantly. “Let’s dance.” Dorian looked up at the Inquisitor through his eyelashes. And saw him quirk a small smile.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” he said, taking the offered hand.

Dorian pulled him close, framing up and began to lead. He smiled fondly at Fitzwilliam. “Thank goodness one of us has a little initiative.” That got a full, genuine smile out of the man.

“Oh yes,” he said mockingly, “I, leader of the Inquisition, the man who got you your amulet against your will, _I_ lack imitative.”

Dorian laughed heartily. “As I said,” he replied slyly. 

“I should smack you,” Fitzwilliam said. But he didn’t he leaned forward and kissed Dorian gently. It made his heart ache. In the best way. When they parted Fitz kept his face close. It took everything in Dorian not to close the gap and capture Fitzwilliam’s lips. “Will you come to my rooms tonight?” The Herald whispered. There was something in his voice Dorian couldn’t quite define. It was… sad, unsure. _Insecure,_ he realized. _By the Flame of Andraste, he doesn’t think I’ll say yes. He… he thinks I’ll object._

The mage rested his forehead against Fitzwilliam’s and said softly, “Of course.” Under his hands Dorian felt Fitzwilliam twitch. Surprise? Dorian pulled back, looking intently at Fitzwilliam’s face. The Inquisitor’s naturally pink cheeks reddened slightly. “Not the answer you expected?”

“Well,” Fitzwilliam started. “We’re in Orlais. There are eyes everywhere. I thought you might care what they have to say.”

Dorian laughed again. _What a humorous night._ “Fitz,” he said softly, breaking form to brush the back of his fingertips across the man’s cheek. “We are dancing on a balcony outside the main ballroom. No one has come to gaze. Our Mistress of Spies is good at her job. If they aren’t seeing us here, I have no fear of us being seen in your rooms.”

Fitzwilliam chuckled softly. “Point to you, Master Pavus,” he said. “I’ll retire as soon as I can. This Maker-forsaken Game. Nothing stated plainly. All misdirection and intrigue. I swear, Dorian, I don’t have the patience for it.”

Dorian continued leading the dance and smiled. “Your reviews in court are certainly… mixed,” he said. “But largely favorable. No one is immune to your charm, it seems.”

Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. “You flatter me,” he sighed.

“I can flatter you and tell the truth at the same time,” Dorian said. “I am a man of _many_ talents. As anyone can see.” He leaned over, pressing close to Fitzwilliam and nuzzling softly at his neck. A rare moment of unbridled affection. “And Maker knows _I_ never stood a chance against your charms.”

“That so?” Fitzwilliam said with a smirk.

Dorian nodded, breathing him in. He smelled the lavender Orlesian perfume, mostly, but somewhere under it there was the smell of him. It made him dizzy.

The song ended. They separated, regretfully, and Dorian bowed to the Inquisitor. “I thank you for the dance.”

Fitzwilliam bowed back. “I should be thanking you,” he said with a smile.

Dorian was satisfied. The Inquisitor looked better. His face happier, the slump of his shoulders gone, the tension uncoiled. “Until later,” Dorian said, his voice was dripping with promise and adoration. Then he turned and left to seek out Leliana. She would make the arrangements, and he would watch to follow Fitzwilliam when he departed.

VVV

Leaving the party had taken too damn long. It was hard enough watching Fitzwilliam walk about, talking to this “important person” and that “Duchess of here or there” when clearly the man needed rest. But as Josephine had told him before he left, it had all paid off. The Orlesian court, it seemed, was enamored with the man. Still, it had taken Fitz forever to get free. And some doddery woman had kept Dorian from following after for quite some time. He wanted to dismiss her curtly and care for Fitzwilliam, but it wouldn’t do. He already knew what people had to say about his association with the Inquisition. Dorian could not afford to make it look like he was giving anything less than everything to the cause. As he walked the halls that thought made him smile with wickedness. _Maker, if they only knew._

Regardless, Dorian was concerned. Fitzwilliam had gone to great lengths to make Dorian feel like he wasn’t his dirty little secret. They were being subtle, of course, or as subtle as they could be, but Fitzwilliam had made it clear he was not ashamed of Dorian. He didn’t care what people might say… would say… _were_ saying about them. And yet it seemed like Fitzwilliam was under the impression Dorian did. He’d told him he didn’t care about Mother Giselle’s opinion, but Fitzwilliam had one thing right. Dorian’s swagger and confidence hid more than a few insecurities. He knew Fitzwilliam didn’t care what people thought but there were powerful people around him who could take action. Send him home to Tevinter. Or make it appear had had gone home and disappeared on the way. Or worse.

 _Well,_ he thought. _There’s nothing to it. I need to get the council on my side, and make my intentions clear to Fitzwilliam… after I make them clear to myself._ He rubbed his face, frustrated and tired, and unlocked the door to his room. Once inside he changed out of the formalwear. It was _quite_ nice. The fabric was very fine, and the colors were vivid. But the outfit marked him out as one of the Inquisition. He changed into a beige pair of trousers and a matching shirt. They were drab as anything, but the make was good. And the servants wore similar clothing during the night hours. So at least he wouldn’t stand out. He left his room by the servant’s door and made his way toward Fitzwilliam’s rooms. He’d studied a map, and they had been assigned rooms which were very close together but it was still troublesome. It would not do to walk into the wrong room. Dorian smirked. It would have made a good story, though. Maybe he could sell it to Varric.

The mage confirmed thrice that he was in front of the correct door before he entered. And even then he did so as quietly as possible. The room was lit only by the blazing fire. Draped over a chair Dorian saw one of the red jackets and a blue sash. That at least meant he was in the room of a fellow member of the Inquisition. The bed itself, however, was empty. Dorian continued moving about the room. It seemed empty as well. Perhaps Fitzwilliam had not made it back yet after all… but no, his jacket was here. Dorian moved forward toward the fireplace. A couch faced it, and two chairs angled toward the couch.

As he approached the sitting area a scene was slowly revealed to him.

Fitzwilliam lay on the couch, in his undershirt and red trousers. His boots had been discarded and one lay on its side on the floor beside him. A silky pillow propped the Inquisitor’s head up. His hair was tousled, his eyes closed, his breathing slow. It hadn’t taken the mage _that_ long to get here. The man must have been asleep the moment his head hit. Dorian could not help the swelling in his heart at the site but he couldn’t bring himself to wake him, either. So Dorian removed his shoes, and moved quietly to the bed. He took the lush comforter, feathered no doubt, and covered in the gaudiest brocade fabric, gold and pink with some sort of fanciful bird. Then he moved to the couch and draped it gently over Fitzwilliam’s sleeping form. The man stirred slightly and Dorian knelt to stroke his cheek soothingly. He quieted, breath puffing out of him in a soft sigh.

Dorian sat in one of the chairs, pulling his knees up, curling in on himself. The room was quite warm, the fire going well. Extra wood had been left. The chairs were oversized and quite padded. The mage sat comfortably and watched Fitzwilliam. He was just sleeping but Dorian was enthralled. He could not look away, try as he might. His eyelids became heavy. He struggled valiantly to keep them open, to hold on to this rare moment of peace and contentment. Dorian reached up, stretching, and found Fitzwilliam’s jacket there. Something compelled him, and he pulled it down, draping it over himself like a blanket. A cloud of scent enveloped him. He could smell a bit of the Orlesian oil Josephine had provided, but somehow, miraculously, the smell of Fitzwilliam powered through it. That smell that was _him_ – musk and honey.

Warm and content Dorian began to give in to the tired ache in his bones and the pull of his eyelids. But he continued to look at Fitzwilliam until the last moment and began to dream.

VVV

Young Dorian pushed open the door to his father’s salon. A fire blazed in the hearth, crackling loudly. The smell of spice filled the room. Dorian remembered that smell. It came from the wood they burned. The cassia trees were prolific, and scented the air decadently.

In the odd way of dreams Dorian was both observer and participant. He walked, and watched himself walk, to his father’s old oversized chair. It was not unlike the very chair in which Dorian now dozed.  Young Dorian could smell the old leather of the chair, and the sweetly scented smoke from his father’s herb pipe. He heard the leather squeak as his father shifted, the old wood of the chair creaking. He heard the soft _puff puff_ of his father drawing on the pipe. All the smells and sounds of home assaulted him. When he woke they would make his chest ache, but for now he breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and felt peace. Dorian’s father lowered the book he was reading and looked down at his son.

“Papa?” his small voice said. And Dorian realized he could not have been more than five years of age at the time. He was even holding a small cloth dragon. _Druk_. That was the dragon’s name.

“Yes, my son?” Dorian had almost forgotten what it was like to hear his father speak to him with pride and love. Not because the man stopped doing it. But because the remembering was too painful. And the way he looked down at his son. Joy. Uninhibited joy. Happiness. To young Dorian that was just how things were. That was how a father looked at his son. He would learn. Dorian watched as the small boy with his inky-black locks, wavy and fragile, looked up at his father seriously.

“What is love?” the boy asked. His father’s eyebrows went up in surprise. Then the man put aside his book and pipe all together, leaned down, and lifted the boy onto his lap, pulling him into a close embrace.

“That is a hard question to answer, Dorian,” he said softly. “Love is many things.” He smoothed the boy’s hair gently, and rested his head atop his. “Love is putting another before yourself. Love is commitment. Love is forgiveness… I suppose some people will tell you love is an emotion, but it’s more than that. You feel it in your bones, coursing through you. It’s very complex. Like… like the Fade.”

Young Dorian pulled his dragon close and hugged it. He was still frightened of the Fade. “You mean it’s scary?” he asked in a small voice.

His father chuckled softly. “Yes,” he said with a smile. As Dorian watched he could see the amusement there, but also deep contemplation. “Love is scary. People run from it. But Dorian,” he paused, pulling away a bit so he could turn and face his son. He touched his cheek gently, looked him in the eyes. “It is also a magnificent, beautiful mystery. There is always something new to learn, to discover. And yes, it is hard work, like anything that is worth doing. But life without it is so much less than it could be.”

Young Dorian blinked hard. Looking up at his father. Complete trust shinning in his young eyes. “Does it hurt?” He asked.

His father’s face crumpled and he nodded silently. After a moment he said “Yes,” with a strained voice. “Sometimes love hurts. But it is still worth it.”

“Do you love mother?” The boy asked. And Dorian watched, feeling he knew the answer. They despised each other.

“Yes,” his father said. Young Dorian nodded. But as Dorian watched the scene he could see his father’s face. The honesty in his answer and the pain behind his eyes could not be hidden. They were beyond the boy’s ability to understand.

“How do you know?” the boy asked. And suddenly Dorian felt bad for his father. The man wanted to explain this to Dorian, wanted him to understand and look for something real in his life. But it was clearly causing him pain. To his benefit, however, the mage still answered.

“Your mother and I, we used to spend the nights together in her parlor. I would read to her. She was already carrying you at the time, and often found she lacked the energy to stay awake. One night, I was reading to her, something soothing, a myth I think…” Dorian watched and somehow he knew his father was leaving out details. He could tell the man remembered exactly what he had been reading. He probably remembered every detail of that moment. “She had fallen asleep on the lounge. She was so beautiful. Firelight dancing across her olive skin,” he was wistful, playing the memory, not entirely in the present. “She looked content and peaceful and I was proud to have given that to her. I put the book down and I just sat. Watching her.” He paused then, for a long moment, looking lost. Then he said, “That happened often for a while, and I would sit and watch her. Touch her softly. Breathe her scent.”

“That’s when you knew?” Young Dorian asked.

His father shook his head. “That’s the other thing about love, Dorian. It sneaks up on you, makes you a fool. I did not realize for a long time. Until it was too late. But looking back, I could see that was the moment.” He hugged the boy close again, and kissed the top of his head, before resting his cheek against it. “You’ll know you truly love someone, Dorian, when you can sit and simply watch them sleep. And find you are completely content.”

“Have you watched me, papa?” Young Dorian asked, and then yawned. He rubbed his eyes sleepily.

“Many times, my son,” he replied. And Dorian could hear all the love in the world in his voice. Not just pride. Not just satisfaction in knowing he had bred a powerful mage. But actual, genuine love.

“So that means you love me,” the boy said, clearly falling asleep as he spoke.

“Of course I love you, Dorian,” he said. The boy fell asleep. His father held him, rocking gently, and began to sing softly – a song Dorian only remembered in the very deepest part of his mind. Somewhere it had been forgotten for far too long.

 

 

AN: Poor Dorian. I thought that often as I played the game. All I wanted to do was love him, show him he wasn’t alone, make him feel like being who he was wasn’t … wrong. And when played I thought about how hard coming to terms with that can be. Sometimes you get so used to people telling you you don’t deserve love or happiness that you start to believe it, you stop fighting.

Well, Dorian’s days of that are nearing an end. I hope.

Thanks for your support. Feel free to drop me a line:)


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

...

Chapter 10

_The velvet curtain pulled back and there he was. Looking at him made Dorian feel painful pleasure welling up inside – an ache he could not scrub away. He entered. The curtain fell closed behind. It made a soft swishing sound._

" _Dorian," he said in greeting. He was smiling. Fitz sat on the floor beside the chair, his back rested against the mage's leg. Dorian put his book down and reached out to touch him. "The travel back was rough. But did you enjoy the Winter Palace?"_

_Dorian ran his fingers through the Inquisitor's hair absentmindedly. He loved touching him. With him close, under his fingers, everything felt in its proper place. For just a moment, the anxiety he had been feeling since the Ball faded. "Marvelous business," he said, playfully. "All the dancing, politics and murder made me a bit homesick, however." He felt the Inquisitor's shoulders shake under his touch. Air escaped him in a small laugh._

" _That's something you'd like to do more often, then?" Fitzwilliam retorted. Amusement colored his words._

" _Watch as you twist an entire empire around your little finger?" Dorian drawled. He infused his final words with the lust he felt, "Yes,_ please. _" He paused for a moment then continued a little sadly. "Of course, that only leaves Tevinter, and it wouldn't work as well there."_

" _No?" He heard the smile in Fitzwilliam's voice. The Inquisitor leaned his head back into Dorian's touch and made a sound of easy enjoyment. "Why not?"_

 _Dorian lowered his voice seductively. "Our dances are so much more_ intense _. If an evening lacks a murder, we sniff and call it a bore."_

 _Fitzwilliam was quiet for a long time. He'd been doing that a lot lately. Thinking to himself. Not sharing his thoughts as freely as he once had. "Personally," he said finally, "I'll remember_ our _dance." He sighed wistfully. The man sounded… smitten. He paused. "But do you actually miss it?" Fitzwilliam asked seriously, turning to look up at him. Perhaps that was what he had been thinking of so intently. Wondering if Dorian missed his homeland._

 _Dorian searched his feelings and was surprised to find that, yes, he actually did. "Who wouldn't," he sighed wistfully. "All the drama, the scandal, the petty maneuverings. Back home we engage in social affairs with the grim intensity of war. When blood is spilled the battle is won." He laughed softly. "It's less fun when you're the target, but to watch? My,_ yes _."_

_Fitzwilliam was smiling at him, like a puppy, or some equally pathetically adorable, calf-eyed animal, resting his head on the mage's knee. "Well," he said with a smirk. "I'm happy to oblige. A taste of home, just for you."_

_Dorian quirked a half-smile. "Not_ just _for me, Inquisitor," he said playfully. "Fun for the whole family."_

_Fitzwilliam smiled wickedly. "Perhaps I should have invited some," he replied._

_Dorian looked down at him._ You are my family, _he thought. The dream he'd had in the Winter Palace still haunted him. But he couldn't wrap his mind around it. Not yet. So instead he reached out and touched Fitzwilliam's face gently, urging him up on his knees. The mage leaned over and tucked a finger under the Inquisitor's chin, lifting it so their eyes locked._

"We _were there," Dorian said softly. "_ That's  _what counts." And then he kissed the Herald of Andraste._

 

...

The memory of that talk made him shiver as he wandered. It had been wonderful, and for a fleeting moment the unease that had haunted him the whole way back to Skyhold had dissolved. But when the two had parted it returned with a vengeance. Okay, yes, so maybe Dorian  _was_ avoiding the Inquisitor. Since Halamshiral Dorian had had only the one conversation with Fitzwilliam. Since then he'd been moving from place to place, never staying in once spot too long, and  _never_  going to the usual places.

It was that Maker-forsaken dream. He couldn't shake it.

Or what it meant.

So he had been flitting about, place to place, just as he had done before joining the Inquisition. He'd even played chess with Cullen. He'd cheated, of course, which made the losing so much worse. And Fitzwilliam had shown up toward the end. Dorian thought about staying around to see the game out to its winner, but Cullen had distracted the man and if he was to make his get-away he would need to do it while they played.

Now he was just mindlessly wandering about the Hall. Fitzwilliam was away on a mission. He'd tried to find Dorian to go along, as per usual, but Dorian had hid in a closet. That was a… low moment. But he needed time. He had to figure this all out. Not that the Hall was preferable. Anytime he passed someone they whispered. He wasn't unused to being whispered about but every once in a while he would catch a bit of the conversation. Mostly he could brush them off. What did these people matter anyway?

Eventually, however, things started filtering through, "I hear the council is voting on trying him as a spy," a woman in a mask whispered once she thought him out of earshot. He rolled his eyes and kept walking but now, it seemed, he was no longer able to tune out the whisperers.

"He has the Inquisitor wrapped around his finger," a man in a gaudy red suit hissed.

"Doesn't go anywhere without him, yet here he is. A falling out?"

"All his free time is spent in closed quarters with a compatriot of the Venatori."

Dorian found himself storming out before he realized he was doing it. They  _really_  began to talk then. He didn't care. He didn't care what they said. He didn't care about his place in the Inquisition. And he didn't care that it was barely fifth bell. He headed straight for the tavern.

Dorian ordered up a drink, sat in a dark corner, and brooded. Drink after drink. He wasn't sure how long he'd been at it when the Qunari showed up but the sun had been on its way down when he'd arrived. The world was now cloaked in a deep darkness. Iron Bull sat down without being invited and without saying a word. He just sat there, drinking.

"Excuse me," Dorian grumbled.

"You're excused," Iron Bull replied without looking at him.

Dorian growled, finished the drink, called for another, and glared at Bull. "If you don't mind," he said, "I'm trying to drink."

"Don't mind at all," Bull said. He lifted his mug a bit and said, "Me too." Dorian's drink arrived and he took it. "So," Bull continued casually. "Why are you drinking?"

Dorian rolled his eyes and looked into his mug, "A lot of reasons. You?"

"Because I'm thirsty," Bull said simply. Dorian wanted to slap him, cocky animal that he was, but it appeared the Qunari was drinking ale. So he was probably telling the truth. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Fuuuuuck you," Dorian drawled. He realized his speech was starting to slur. Maybe he'd been here longer than he realized.

"I guess that's on the table too," Iron Bull said with a wink.

"You know very well I…" and then he stopped. He'd been about to say "You know very well I'm involved" but…  _Why not._  He downed his drink, called for a glass of scotch, and drank it all down before he returned his gaze to Bull. "Can we talk in private?" He asked. His head was spinning, but he was pretty sure Bull nodded in affirmation. The room swayed when Dorian stood and he found he was not above letting the mercenary help him up the tavern stairs to his rooms.

Iron Bull let him in first, then closed the door behind them. Dorian approached him with some swagger. "I lied," he said, pressing close., forcing Bull back against the closed door. He rested his hands on the Qunari's bare chest.  _Maker, his skin is hot._

"Oh?" Bull asked, his eyebrow going up, smirking.

"I don't want to talk," Dorian said and then leaned up to kiss him.

He found himself unable to move much, he eased backward a bit and tried again. Once more his momentum halted. He blinked, looking around, he spotted the problem. Bull had grabbed him by the shoulders. "Thought you and the Inquisitor…" he said. He was, after all, a spy. Leaving the question open would allow Dorian to provide the answer, which would give more information than supplying his own assumption.

Dorian shrugged. "He's not here," he said. "You are."

Bull lowered his head closer to Dorian's. His breath was hot and smelled of ale. "I want you to consider this, Vint," he said. "Is this what you really want?"

 _No. But this is easy._ "Yes," Dorian said stubbornly.

Bull released him and rolled his eyes. "Venak hol, Dorian. You've gotten good at lying. To yourself, anyway. You're being a particularly big fool –even for a Vint."

Dorian blinked. The anger set in slowly but it was white hot.  _How dare he play with me like this._  He tried to shove his way past the giant of a man, "I guess I'll leave then."

But Bull, practically a second door in front of the real door, blocked his way. "Oh no you won't. We're gonna talk about this."

"A Qunari? Talk about feelings? Please. Your kind just hits things with a stick." Dorian was close to him, ready to push, shove, anything.

"I could hit you if you like," Bull replied. "Work this out the Qunari way, beat the fear out of you. But either way, you aren't leaving."

Dorian felt the power surging through him at the threat. The desire to draw on the magic there was strong. So strong. "I'm not afraid of you," he growled. "I could burn right through you and bring this whole place down around your head." He felt the fire at his fingertips.

Iron Bull did not seem intimidated. "You could," he agreed calmly. "I've see what you can do. I've spent my life studying mages, learning how to combat them. So saying you've impressed me on our missions together? That should tell you something. But if you  _did_  burn the tavern down around me you'd also be damning every person in it. Sera.  _Cole_. And you know Cole would try to help, even if you did manage to get him out…" That cooled Dorian's rage a little. Bull was right, after all. Despite the fact that Dorian was livid, he took a step back. "Good, you're not beyond reason after all. Sit." Dorian moved and sat heavily on the bed. Maker, it was  _huge_. And had a straw mattress. Dorian cringed inwardly but the drunk in him really wanted to curl up in it and sleep. The mage clenched and opened his hands, flexing, making fists to exert some energy. Bull poured him a glass of water and shoved it in Dorian's hands. Taking the water was clearly not up for negotiation. "Now, what's this all about?"

Dorian sat, silently fuming, sipping water. It took a long time for him to realize Bull would sit here until daybreak, patiently, unless Dorian talked. So he sighed heavily and said, "Nothing, I just… nothing."

"You meant to put me in the middle of whatever is going on with you and the Inquisitor," Bull said seriously. "For that alone you owe me an answer."

Dorian glared. Bull had been right about that too. It wasn't fair to pull the Qunari into this. But he was drunk and angry so maybe fair didn't concern him. He glared instead. "There's nothing going on," he spat.

"Ah," Bull said, sitting in a chair across from him. "I see. And  _you_  wish something  _were_  going on."

"I… no." Dorian said looking away.  _Stupid Ben-hassrath training._

"Dorian," Bull said with gentle sincerity. "You're a terrible liar."

"That's not the problem," Dorian said harshly. The great beast of a man was infuriating. Dorian knew he was having his buttons pushed, but he was too drunk to think his way out of it.  _Void take me, what made me think this was a good idea?_

"Mhm," Bull said. His head bobbed as he nodded – so nonchalantly that Dorian wanted to throw something at his stupid horned face. "If not that, then what?"

Dorian stood and put the water down. He was too forceful, it sloshed onto the table. The dark, spreading, mark pulled his gaze, he became lost in the shape. It looked like… a dragon? No, a Griffon. Dorian shook his head. "I'm not doing this," he said angrily. "Fuck me or let me leave."

Iron Bull stood, the room became a blur of color, and Dorian found his face flat against the rough wooden wall. Iron Bull was pressed close behind him, trapping him. Dorian could feel hot breath on his neck. "I could do that," The Qunari said huskily. "I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about conquering you. If that's really what you want," he continued, grinding against Dorian's backside. "I can tear your clothes off and take you until your eyes roll back and your knees buckle." And despite the fear coursing through his veins and the sick, guilty feeling in his stomach, Dorian shivered with desire. "I could hold you down and hurt you and please you until you begged for more. You wouldn't even know if you want the pain or the pleasure. It wouldn't matter." He felt Bull take both his hands in one strong one and press his wrists above his head. His grip was tight, it was uncomfortable. Despite that Dorian's heart was a jack-hammer in his chest.

Iron Bull paused in his speech and just pressed against Dorian, letting his breath whisk, hot, across the mage's neck. Finally, in the same husky voice he'd been using, he said something that cut through the haze of lust and fear. "But you get one chance to say no, Dorian, and this is it. Don't just think about this moment, the running away. Think about what will come after. Think about the Inquisitor coming back. Think of him charging up the keep stairs to find you. Think of how you will feel. Think of  _that_  moment. And then tell me you want this."

Dorian was nothing if not a stubborn man. He stayed silent a long time. The wood was rough under his cheek, his hands ached at the wrists where they were clenched in Bull's hand. It hurt. Good. He needed something to bring him down to earth.  _You're a bit of fluff in the breeze._  He heard Fitzwilliam saying.  _You ran from home and never stopped._  This. This was what he  _did_. Running. Hurting. This was what Dorian was good at. But then he thought of the look on Fitzwilliam's face when he told him what he'd done. The pain he would see there. The betrayal. And he realized Bull was right. He couldn't do this.

"I don't want this," he whispered softly, defeated. And just like that Bull had released him and herded him back to the bed. Dorian sat down, Bull sat across from him.

"Alright, Dorian. Now, what's this really all about," the Qunari asked. He was being surprisingly gentle. As if Dorian were a bird with a broken wing.

Dorian hung his head, looking at the floor. "People have been saying things, at court, about the Inquisitor and I," he said honestly, finally.

"People are assholes," Bull said with a shrug. "Especially nobles."

"I know," Dorian said. Frustration was creeping in on the edges of his voice. "But those are the only opinions I hear. And Fitzwilliam can't ignore public opinion forever. Sooner or later he will…" but he couldn't finish. Listen? Yield? Agree? Everything he could think of was too horrible.

"You know I'm a spy right?" Iron Bull said. Dorian looked up, confused, and nodded. "Yeah, well, I've got a load of intel on you," he said getting up and rummaging through a pile of papers and books. Finally, he pulled out a large leather bound volume. "Orlesian nobles like gossip and you are a more interesting topic than most. Let me tell you what people really think." Dorian watched, confused and afraid as Bull opened the book and flipped. "Says here when you left Tevinter you were a pariah, yet public opinion of you there is swaying. They see you gathering power and influence, and making your homeland look good. Of course those entrenched in the old ways are trying to reduce your impact, and a few attempts have been made on your father's life, a few contracts taken out on yours, but by and large they are eager to see your progress."

Dorian's head was spinning with that. It was the very last thing he thought he'd ever hear. And he'd heard it from a Qunari.

"The Council of the Inquisition has said you are an invaluable member. And when talked to individually, Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen have all praised you. I even asked Cullen what he thought of your relationship with the Inquisitor. He said quote, "Nothing wrong with a little fun. And we all need someone to keep us level." Granted, he stammered and blushed like a fledgling," Bull laughed. "But he was telling the truth. Let's see," he continued. "Cassandra seemed a little put off by you and your relationship, but that was  _clearly_ jealousy talking. You know she has a thing for the Inquisitor, right? Adorable. So easy to fluster. She'll calm down. King Alistair was around for a moment and my network gathered that he thought you seemed "intelligent, charming, a bit of a smartass". He said the last bit approvingly. Accurate. But hardly damning."

"So what," Dorian interrupted. "All of Thedas is singing my praises?" And if his tone was heavily sarcastic, well who would blame him?

Iron Bull let out a boisterous laugh. "Hardly. You've got enemies like any man. More, actually. But the majority of the public opinion? And the people close to the Inquisition who  _really_  matter? They like you, Dorian. They think you're good for the Inquisition. And what's more, good for the Inquisitor." Dorian rolled his eyes. "Okay, I get it, you don't believe me. So here." He handed Dorian the book. "Read it. You'll see every good and bad thing everyone has had to say about you. Or at least the ones my network has gathered, which is close to the same thing." He winked. Blinked?  _What do you call it if you only have one eye?_  Dorian smoothed his fingers over the rigid leather of the cover. "Just get it back to me soon," Bull said firmly, and he fixed Dorian with a serious stare from that one good eye. "I don't lend out my intel."

Dorian looked up at the Qunari, a man he hand once thought of as an enemy and said softly, "I… I don't know…  _thank you_ , Bull."

Bull smiled at him, and nodded, then handed him the water again. "You drank all day, it's near the 10th bell. Finish that before you go."

And, Maker take him, Dorian did.

VVV

Dorian stopped by the library and read for a good hour before he ventured back to his room. The Qunari had been right. There were plenty of people out to kill him, but an astonishing number of people were rooting for him. And, it seemed, whatever was going on between him and Fitzwilliam wasn't exactly a secret either. Even as far away as the Ferelden capital of Denerim people were speculating. Still, they seemed nonplused by it. Some people actually seemed to be...  _pleased_  by it. "Like a story out a fairy tale," one man had been quoted as saying. He shook his head, closed the book, and headed to his rooms.

The door latched softly behind him and Dorian was relieved to find someone had had the presence of mind to start his fire. The chill in the air with winter moving in was hard to endure without a good fire to fight off the night. He would have to find the thoughtful servant and reward him. Dorian placed the book on a table and got ready to retire. When he turned and looked at his bed he realized, for the first time, he was not alone.

Fitzwilliam was there. In his bed. Asleep. Under the blankets and hogging the pillows and everything. Dorian felt the shame of his recent actions color his cheeks. He would have to talk to Fitzwilliam, of course, really talk to him, but thanks to Bull, Dorian hadn't done anything he couldn't take back. So for now, he stood and looked at the Herald's sleeping form, peaceful and content in Dorian's bed, until the chill in the room cut his bare skin and he slipped under the blankets.

"Doe?" He heard Fitzwilliam say sleepily. Dorian lay on his back, tense.

"Yes," he whispered.

"You're here," Fitzwilliam said, moving close, reaching out to touch him.

"I am," Dorian replied, touching his hand.

"I'm cold," he heard him mumble.

Dorian sat up, and pulled the extra blanket at the foot of the bed up to cover them. He then lay down and wrapped his arm around Fitzwilliam, pulling him close, skin on skin. Fitzwilliam's head rested on his chest, and Dorian kissed the top of it. "Rest now, Fitz," he said. "I'll keep you warm."

Fitzwilliam nuzzled his chest softly. Dorian squeezed gently in response. Soon Fitzwilliam's slow steady breathing lulled him to sleep.

...

 

AN: I know this is a bit shorter than post chapters. This chapter was rough to write, as I am sure parts hurt to read. Thank you for your continued support and enthusiasm! Keep it coming:)


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Fitzwilliam woke and took in his surroundings. He was hugging a pillow, he was alone, and the bed, all but the small area on which he now rested, had gone cold. He knew it wasn’t his bed. Not the expensive mattress and soft sheets the Inquisitor was provided. Dorian’s rooms then. He sat up, wrapping the warm fur throw that had been placed atop the bedding around himself and looked around. The fire was dead, the room was cold and still fairly dark. The grey light of early morning filtered through the single window.

Fitzwilliam reached up and brushed his fingers across his lips. He remembered now, Dorian had kissed him before he left. His mustache had tickled. Fitzwilliam had made a sleepy, cranky sound and Dorian had chuckled affectionately.

But where would the man _be_ at this hour. Dorian had his own interests, scholarly mostly, but they were by and large at his leisure to pursue and he rarely left Skyhold without Fitzwilliam. He shivered in the cold. _Well, sitting here pondering it isn’t going to do,_ he thought. So he sat and began to dress. _Maker’s ass, it’s cold in here._ If Dorian had given him an extra blanket surely he would have stoked the fire before leaving. Fitzwilliam fastened his jacket and looked around. He couldn’t see any wood by the fire. _Ah,_ Fitzwilliam thought, annoyed at himself. _I used the last of it last night. I should have called for more but…_ Well, it wouldn’t have done for the Inquisitor to ask for more wood to be sent to Master Pavus’s chambers while in them… especially since he was _in_ them so late.

He briefly considered writing Dorian a note asking him to his rooms at day’s end, but today would be long. He had a full day of strategizing to get done. They were so close to being able to put up a real fight against Coryphaeus. He couldn’t afford reservations now. There was no telling what time he would get back to his own room, and bed, and warmth. Fitzwilliam sighed, resigned and left the room. He rubbed his hands together as he walked.

When he was a respectable distance into the Hall he flagged down a serving maid. She was cute, short with a nice curve to her hip, reddish hair, and green eyes she averted when he addressed her.

“Yes, your worship?” She said with a curtsy.

“What’s your name?” He asked pleasantly.

Her cheeks colored as she looked up at him. She looked confused and astounded. “Claire?” She responded uncertainly.

“Not sure?” He bantered with a smile. She blushed harder. “Claire, have a heap of wood sent to Master Pavus’s rooms, he’s run out. Then fetch me a _hot_ breakfast. I’ll take it in the war room. Do not be surprised if Lady Leliana or Lady Josephine take the tray. That will be fine.” She stared, but said nothing. “Claire?”

“Oh,” she said with a start. _Maker she can’t possibly get more red-faced can she?_ “Yes, your worship. Right away, your worship.” And then she scampered off, lifting her skirts and _running_.

Fitzwilliam sighed and turned toward the back of the hall. He caught sight of Varric and made for him. The dwarf noticed he was drawing near and he looked around as if searching for escape. Finding none, he settled for deliberate nonchalance.

“Varric,” Fitzwilliam said with a smile. It was early, he was cranky, but there was no need not to be nice.

“Inquisitor,” he said with a nod. “What can I do for you? Or are you just here to stare at the dwarf,” he finished with a wink.

Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Hardly, I was wondering,” he said slowly, his voice low. “Do you happen to know where Dorian has run off to this morning?”

“Looking for Sparkler?” Varric said as he sipped something hot from a metal mug. “I’d think you’d know better than I.”

That stung a bit and Fitzwilliam winced. “He was gone this morning,” he admitted quietly. _Thank the Maker it’s an ungodly hour. Almost no one is here._

Varric had the kindness to smile apologetically. “All I know,” he said seriously, “is that he was armored and left Skyhold. I overheard him say something to Bull. Asked him to help him with something.”

“Bull?” Fitzwilliam wondered aloud. He supposed they had been getting on better lately but the two of them off alone, at an hour they both preferred to be mired in sleep? Varric nodded. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Thanks Varric.”

“No problem, Inquisitor,” Varric replied.

Fitzwilliam walked through the series of doors into the war room.

 

…

And it had been a long day. Fitzwilliam headed right to his rooms. He’d missed the evening meal again, so he’d called to have _something_ sent up. At this point it mattered little what it was. He had to be better about eating. He knew that. He wasn’t wasting away by any means, but constant training, running missions, and the general fatigue inherent in being a leader, well, they could catch up with one. And _food_ helped keep his mind sharp. As the meandering inner monologue he was now experiencing proved.

Besides that he could feel everything wearing on him. Grinding him down. Sometimes it felt like a weight. There were days he wanted to climb in his bed and never come out. He would be too sharp with his advisors, the servants, his friends. He would feel restless, but unable to focus on anything for any amount of time. Sleep, physical activity, and eating regularly helped. As did prayer, he was surprised to find. Not the repetitive prayers of the chantry, but going to the temple, being able to say everything out loud. To feel he was heard. There was, however, no time for that just now. So, food.

He walked into his quarters and began pulling off his jacket and boots. He tossed them… somewhere, he couldn’t be bothered. Somewhere in that room there was food, he could smell it. But there was something else in the room too. Fitzwilliam stopped abruptly gaping at the couch, which now basically lived before the fire. Dorian was sitting there, looking at the fire, his hands moved restlessly. Sometimes he simply rubbed them together, once he rubbed his face roughly, but mostly he twirled his mustache absentmindedly. Fitzwilliam couldn’t help but smile. That habit of his was one he adored. It was a moment before the Inquisitor could take in more information. He noted that the mage didn’t have a drink in his hand. He also observed that despite the ruckus he’d made with his entry, all banging doors and tossing boots, Dorian hadn’t moved. In fact, it didn’t seem like he had noticed Fitzwilliam’s entry at all.

Fitzwilliam walked up beside him, “Lost in thought?”

“Hmm?” Dorian said as he looked up. “Ah there you are. Your food is getting cold.” He gestured to the desk where a dark stew and a crusty roll waited. Even a flagon of ale. That was odd but it set Fitzwilliam’s mouth watering. Dorian smiled. “I intercepted your servant boy,” he said fondly. His hand reached out and touched Fitzwilliam’s, their fingers twined. “He was going to bring you a dreadfully stodgy meal. Overcooked meat and some kind of mash with a wine that had nearly gone off. This was the tavern’s offering tonight. I thought it might be more to your liking.” Fitzwilliam squeezed Dorian’s hand gently.

“Thank you,” he said.

Dorian bowed his head slightly, then said, “Go on, tuck in.” And the mage’s hand dropped away. Fitzwilliam frowned slightly. He didn’t like that, the loss of Dorian’s touch, but he did need to eat something. So he went, sat at his desk, and began. It didn’t take long. He was all but shoveling food into his mouth. At this point choking was a real risk, but an acceptable one. He knew Dorian had seen him eat like this before, but he still felt a little self-conscious. Fitzwilliam Trevelyan was a man of noble birth! He should know better. _Maker, what Dorian must think of my manners right now._ The good thing was, being done quickly meant being able to return to Dorian. So he did.

The Inquisitor finished his ale, wiped his mouth and hands, and walked over to the couch where the mage sat.

Dorian had said nothing while Fitzwilliam ate. Not a peep, hadn’t even looked over. He just sat and stared at the fire. It was… worrisome. Fitzwilliam reached out, taking Dorian by his chin and lifting his head until their gazes met. He smiled softly and the mage returned the smile, but there was something sad in it. Fitzwilliam leaned down and dropped a sweet open-mouthed kiss on his lips. Dorian sighed, and Fitzwilliam felt the tension melting out of him. _Good_. The kiss didn’t last long, however, and when they parted the sadness was still there.

“I need to talk with you,” Dorian said quietly.

Fitzwilliam smiled slyly. “’I need to talk with you,’ he says,” Fitzwilliam joked. But Dorian shook his head softly, unamused. “Oh, you really need to talk to me?” Dorian nodded and Fitzwilliam took his place beside him on the couch. “About…”

Dorian took a deep breath and looked away. Fitzwilliam could see his hand shaking. _Andraste’s Sacred Flame, what could be so bad._ “I have done something… unworthy.” He said at last.

Fitzwilliam furrowed his brow, confused. “Dorian, whatever you did, we can work this out together.”

Dorian chuckled softly. “That’s just like you,” he said, turning to look at the Inquisitor. “You don’t even know what I have done, yet you have faith that everything will be fine. You are a… better man… than I.” Dorian looked away again, staring into the fire as if it held answers. “I don’t deserve you, or your forgiveness.”

That made Fitzwilliam panic. Really, what could he have done? Sure they had been unable to see each other for a while… but Fitzwilliam had just stayed the night with him. “Dorian,” he said reaching out, grasping Dorian’s shoulder, “just tell me.”

Dorian took a deep breath and let it out gradually. Fitzwilliam’s hand rose and fell with the action. “Last night,” he said slowly, his voice wavering, “I got quite drunk.”

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” Fitzwilliam said with genuine concern.

Dorian nodded. “I’ve been… dealing with a lot of things. Yesterday I was walking through the Hall and I heard people saying things about me…. about… _us._ ”

Fitzwilliam grimaced. “I know,” he said earnestly. “I’ve heard them too. But I’ve told you, those things aren’t going to change the way I feel about you.”

“I know,” Dorian said. “But some of the things I heard… well, some were preposterous. One dandy said he heard the Council was going try me as a war spy.” He barked a short laugh. It made Fitzwilliam’s heart glad to hear it. “But some things were… closer to my own fears. Concerns that disapproval from the Council or the Chantry would sway you. And, Fitz, they weren’t even speculating on our relationship to one another. Most of it was simply about my presence here. It’s frustrating. I have tried so hard to show my commitment to the Inquisition and…” Dorian sighed heavily and rubbed the back of his neck. Fitzwilliam’s hand fell away from his shoulder with the movement.  

“Anyway,” he continued, “I left the Hall and went straight to the tavern. Where I drank…. Basically all day, I suppose.”

Fitzwilliam narrowed his eyes, but kept his voice even. “You went drinking all day instead of coming to find me?” Dorian nodded. “Why?”

He saw Dorian’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed heavily. “I want to say it is because you are busy,” he said. “That’s the easy answer and you could hardly refute it. But it would be a lie. I didn’t come find you because I’ve been… avoiding you.” He rubbed the palms of his hands over his eyes.

“How long?” Even to his own ears Fitzwilliam sounded… flat.

Dorian flinched. “Since we returned from the Winter Palace,” he sighed. “Well, since the day after. The day we arrived back at Skyhold… well it wasn’t until I had had some time alone to think that I started hiding from you.”

“Is this what you wanted to tell me?” Fitzwilliam asked. Again his voice sounded… off, emotionless.

Dorian nodded, dropped his hands, and stared straight ahead. “One of the things,” he said quietly. For long moments there was only the crackle of the fire, and the sound of breathing.

“I guess we start there then,” Fitzwilliam said.

Dorian shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, Fitzwilliam but no. I can’t. The avoiding you, how that came to be…That’s where I need to end. If we get through this next bit.” He took a deep breath. “No, I have to start at last night. With what happened in the tavern.” Fitzwilliam only nodded in response. Of course the mage wouldn’t look at him but Dorian continued anyway. “I was quite drunk when Bull sat down at my table,” he said. “I didn’t know how long it had been at the time, Bull said he thought it had been about five hours. The insufferable lummox said it seemed like something was bothering me, which is was, and offered to talk to me about it.”

_Why is he talking about Bull so much?_

“I asked Iron Bull if we could go to his rooms to talk privately about it.” Dorian spared Fitzwilliam a guilty side-glance before gluing his gaze to the pelt on the floor below them. “Once there I…I made… advances.” He said and went quiet.

Fitzwilliam’s eyes were wide with surprise. He knew the mage was a flirt, and they hadn’t _really_ discussed their relationship in detail. This was new to both of them. But he would have expected Dorian to talk to him if he wanted to pursue other partners, or… adjust their relationship. “I see,” was all the Inquisitor could manage to say.

He could hear Dorian’s breathing. It had gone a bit ragged, and he was sniffling. _Maker, he’s crying._ Dorian’s voice came out a bit strangled. “It was stupid of me,” he said hurriedly. “I didn’t really want that. But I was scared and angry and…” he paused for a moment, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hand. “I don’t know why I did it,” he finished at last.

“No,” Fitzwilliam said before he knew he was speaking. His voice was firm, but not cruel. “Don’t lie to me. You know why.” Dorian nodded sadly. “Then say it.” He didn’t sound angry. His voice was soft, calm, even. Too calm. Like the calm before a squall kicked up.

“Hurting is who I am,” Dorian said at last. Cole’s words repeated. Fitzwilliam’s heart shattered. Any anger he had felt was now tertiary to the sadness and worry he felt. “I’m so happy with you,” the mage continued, voice cracking. “It’s fucking terrifying, Fitz. Doubly so in the moments reality sets in and I realize it can all go away.” Fitzwilliam said nothing in the brief pause that hung in the air. Dorian kept going. “So I tried to end it on my terms. Not consciously, almost out of reflex. Thank the Maker Iron Bull was Ben-hassrath. He saw right through me. Made me face my actions and my fears and then gave me a gift. Regardless of what you say after this, I owe that smelly Qunari.” Dorian rubbed the back of his neck again in the long lull that stretched between them. Finally Dorian turned to look at him. “Fitz, please say _something_.”

Fitzwilliam flexed his fingers. He felt… “I’m feeling a lot of things right now, Dorian.” The mage nodded but stayed quiet. “I’m angry that you would betray my trust. I’m hurt. I’m so, so sad for _you_. That this is what you know of relationships. And I’m … worried.” The final word came out sounding surprised, as Fitzwilliam grasped that it was accurate. Worry _was_ the dominating emotion. So strange. An outsider, looking in, would surely expect betrayal, anger, or jealousy to be raging through the air. But if Fitzwilliam felt those things they were small adornments on the disquiet.

Dorian looked at him with wide, flustered eyes. “Worried, Amatus?”

Fitzwilliam nodded and smiled a tender, truthful smile. “I would trust you, even now, with my very life, Doe.” He reached out, touching the mage’s one naked arm tenderly. Dorian smiled, his eyes watered. “But,” he went on and Dorian’s face fell. “How do I trust you with _you_?”

He was genuinely shocked when Dorian smiled. “That’s just it, Fitz,” he said. “I’m ashamed of my actions, truly I am. But I _have_ broken the pattern. Iron Bull owns more credit on that front than I but… in the past I would have continued avoiding you. I wouldn’t have come here tonight. I would have stayed away and let us drift apart. Or found someone else to make advances on. But I _did_ come here _._ I think…” he trailed off, and looked away again. His voice was soft, but it rang with something new. It was… hopeful. “I think I can be more than I was before, Fitz.” He looked back up, gaze intense and adoring. “And that is because of you.”

Fitzwilliam couldn’t help but smile. He reached out and touched Dorian’s face. “I forgive you,” he said tenderly. The tears that had been threatening to spill over the borders of Dorian’s grey-blue eyes finally fell.

“I didn’t even ask,” Dorian said with a small, amazed laugh.

“You don’t need to ask,” he replied softly. “As long as you tell me, even if it’s not right away. As long as you trust me, you don’t need to ask.” They kissed then, sweet and slow for long moments. It never grew in intensity, as their kisses often did. This kiss wasn’t about that. It was a promise. When Fitzwilliam finally pulled away it was with some regret.

Dorian sat back slightly. For a moment his eyes stayed shut and a small smile played on his lips. But when he opened them he began to worry his lip between his teeth. “I need to tell you why I was avoiding you,” he said in a rush. It was clear to the Inquisitor that this, for some reason, was harder than the other confession. So Fitzwilliam nodded his silent encouragement. “Something happened while we were in Orlais. I came to your rooms and you were asleep.”

Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Is that all? Maker, Dorian. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” But the mage shook his head.

“That wasn’t… that was fine. It was what I did whilst you slept.” Fitzwilliam did worry at that. Had Dorian done something… untoward? Surely he would have noticed. “I…” he began with trepidation. “I watched you sleep.”

Fitzwilliam couldn’t have helped the rolling rumbling laugh that poured out of him at that moment for anything. Even if it meant stopping Coryphaeus the Inquisitor would have been utterly incapable of the task. Of all the things for Dorian to get hung up on. It was too funny. The Inquisitor grabbed him and kissed him firmly, a smile still on his lips. Dorian managed a slightly wooden kiss in response, his lips moving, seemingly, out of reflex. Worried, Fitzwilliam broke contact and examined the mange’s face. It was nothing short of shocked. “I’m sorry,” the Inquisitor managed, attempting to sober himself, and largely failing. “Please, continue.”

Dorian shook his head slightly, still looking a bit dazed. “I… there’s no way you could know this,” he began, “but the few nights we’ve spent together I have doggedly refused to watch you sleep. I roll over, I look at you, I smile, and I look away or…”

“Or?” Fitzwilliam asked into the silence. Dorian looked at his hands.

“Or I leave?” He sounded so ashamed. Fitzwilliam reached out and touched him, fingers lightly stroking the backs of his hands.

“Dorian,” Fitzwilliam said cautiously, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t either,” Dorian said, standing. He rubbed the back of his neck and began pacing back and forth across the pelt before the couch. “But after I fell asleep in the chair I had a dream. Well, it was a memory. Maybe it was both? I, I don’t know Fitz.”

Fitzwilliam stared at the mage. _Creator, this really does have him shaken up._ He could only imagine what would have him so worked up. Perhaps he’d had a vivid dream about what might happen in the days to come? Or he’d had a night terror of one of their past battles. Fitzwilliam had had his fair share of those after they had returned from the possible future. But he said nothing. He waited calmly, as Dorian paced and huffed.

“It was about my father,” Dorian sighed, finally. That clicked for Fitzwilliam. Dorian’s father was a source of a lot of pain.

“Dorian, no matter what happens your father can’t keep us apart,” Fitzwilliam said kindly.

The mage stopped in his tracks, mid-stride, and gave him the most befuddled look he had ever seen. And given the night thus far, there was serious competition on that front. “What? No. No. Maker, no, Fitz it wasn’t anything like that. _That_ I can deal with. This was… I’ll just tell you.”

And he did. Dorian paced, and muttered and stumbled, but he told Fitzwilliam… a lot. It seemed the mage remembered the dream well, or at least the memory the dream had presented.

“And then I watched myself fall asleep whilst my father sang me an old Vintish lullaby. I’d totally forgotten it. It’s been running through my head ever since,” Dorian finished flopping heavily onto the couch. He leaned back, and rested his neck against the back of the couch to look up at the ceiling.

Fitzwilliam knew what had the mage in a tizzy now. _Dorian’s in love with me,_ he thought with no small amount of shock. As much as that made Fitzwilliam’s heart glad, and it _was_ positively exultant, clearly Dorian wasn’t ready to admit it to himself yet. That was why the dream had scared him. That was why he had tried to solicit the Qunari spy. The Inquisitor wanted to smile, and kiss him, tell him he was a burning fool, and confess his own affections. But he didn’t. He opened his mouth to say “That’s rather a sweet dream”.

“I had a dream that we had a child,” he blurted out. His eyes went wide, shocked at his own actions. _That… was not the plan._ “Uh, well, more a vision than a dream,” he blundered. “Oooooh nooooo,” he could hear himself groaning. Dorian had turned his head, very slowly, to look at him and Fitzwilliam wished he could melt into the floor. Dorian looked like the Inquisitor had gone off his steed. Fitzwilliam stared into Dorian’s eyes for a long moment and then buried his face in his hands, moaning. “Can we please forget I said that? Can… can we pretend I said _anything_ but what I said?”

Fitzwilliam felt the couch shift. “Oh, no.” He heard Dorian say, cheekily. “Oh no, we _cannot_. I simply _must_ hear this.” He sounded… Fitzwilliam peaked through his fingers. Dorian had sat up and leaned forward, close to Fitzwilliam. The man was positively _leering_. He was all curious eyes and playful smiles.

“You…” Fitzwilliam began, hands falling into his lap. “You’re… _amused_?”

Dorian looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. And probably wouldn’t succeed for long. “Oh no, Fitzwilliam,” he said soberly. “This is quite serious. Now, tell me the vision you had of our physically impossible love child.”

Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. “Will you please let this go?”

Dorian shook his head, smiling. “Not until you tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Fitzwilliam protested. “In the garden at the Winter Palace you mentioned picturing you as a child of five.” He rushed along, hopping it would be over with faster. “I did… only he had your hair and your smile, but my eyes and… it was nonsense. I don’t know why that image popped into my head, and I _certainly_ don’t know why I _told_ you about it.” The Inquisitor grabbed the decorative pillow from behind his back, shoved his face into it, and screamed in embarrassment while Dorian laughed boisterously.

When the laughter died down Fitzwilliam could feel Dorian shifting. Gentle hands took the pillow and tossed it back on the couch. “Come here, Amatus,” Dorian said softly. Fitzwilliam looked up to see his arms open, his face easy and pleased, his smile welcoming. He couldn’t stop the tears that filled his eyes. “Oh,” Dorian said softly, pulling him close. “Don’t cry. It wasn’t as bad as all that.” Fitz buried his face in the mage’s chest, grateful that for once Dorian had worn something simple and less flashy so he didn’t have to worry about buckles poking him. _Still only one sleeve,_ Fitzwilliam thought as he rubbed his face into the dark red fabric. _What’s that all about?_ Fitzwilliam shook his head.

“’M na cryn,” he said, words muffled. Dorian pulled back slightly, Fitzwilliam did not look up.

“What?” The mage asked. His hands were smoothing across Fitzwilliam’s back and through his hair soothing him, making him feel cared for.

“I’m not crying,” Fitzwilliam repeated. He’d tried to sound self-assured but it really came out a bit watery.

“No?” Dorian asked. The mage kissed the top of his head before resting his cheek against it. “It would be okay if you did, you know. You’re the Inquisitor. You have to deal with many things. I would do anything in my power to help you manage them.”

Fitzwilliam could not help it. More tears welled up with Dorian’s words. “Maker, Dorian,” he said, sniffling. “Shut up or I will be completely humiliated.”

But Dorian only pulled him closer, and kissed the soft exposed skin of his neck. Fitzwilliam could feel his mustache tickling him as Dorian smiled there. “I did you great wrong, last night,” he said. “And here you are, wrapped in my arms, worried that you’ll be embarrassed because, what? I’m being too nice?”

Fitzwilliam chuckled softly. “Yes,” he said. “I didn’t say it made sense.”

“Okay,” Dorian sighed heavily. “I’ll shut up.”

Dorian shifted, leaning back against the couch until he was propped up against the arm slightly, but able to stretch his legs out the length of the sofa.  As he did he pulled Fitzwilliam against his chest. Fitzwilliam wrapped his arms around him, rested his head over the mage’s heart and listened. Before long Dorian was humming a song. He didn’t recognize it. It was soft and slow, lulling. Every so often Dorian would lower his chin to kiss Fitzwilliam’s head, or entwine their hands, or brush his fingers across the fringe of Fitzwilliam’s hair, or stroke his cheek.

Through it all Fitzwilliam said nothing. When he began to drift to sleep, Dorian was still humming. He felt a low rumble against his cheek, as Dorian, clearly about to fall asleep himself, ended the song. The mage let out a soft sigh, the word hardly making it past his lips, “Amo”.

Fitzwilliam tumbled into dreams.

 

AN:  Hope you enjoyed:)


	12. An Interlude of Dreams

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 12

An Interlude of Dreams

Fitzwilliam ran through the Dawnstone Hall as quickly as his feet would take him. Behind him creatures followed, clambering loudly. High-pitched shrieks echoed off the stone. Fitzwilliam ran faster. He turned a corner. _Dorian._ He grabbed the mage by his jacket and yelled, “Help me!” Dorian didn’t ask any questions, he merely turned to face the coming threat. Ready to fight alongside Fitzwilliam. They took up defensive positions.

The larger one turned the corner first, hurling fire. The second, smaller one, followed wielding blades. He thought he’d passed a third, but if so it wasn’t following. Maybe it sat in wait, watching.

Fitzwilliam turned to the mage at his side, eyes wide. “I love you,” he said. The mage kissed him. And then the creatures were on top of them.

It was no fight at all. The men fell, landing on their backs. The creatures clambered over them.

“Ahhhhh,” Fitzwilliam screamed.

“I am fallen,” he heard Dorian yell.

And then they were still.

Laughter broke out in the hall. Four voices at once, all melding into a beautiful cacophony of joy. Fitzwilliam wrapped his arms around, pulled the littlest one close, and kissed her head. Dorian was doing the same with the boy. The children giggled.

Fitzwilliam sat up, wrapping his arms around the little girl. Her long chocolate and cinnamon locks were a tangled mess, her light blue eyes glittered with joy. Her cheeks, usually an even fair olive that matched the rest of her face, had gone pink with exertion.

“I beat you papa,” the boy said. His hair was black, wavy and cut short. His brilliant blue eyes shone with excitement. His cheeks, usually _just_ tinged pink, had gone dark rose during his run and contrasted beautifully against the olive of his skin.

Dorian sat up, pulling the boy into his lap. “I’ll get you next time, you’ll see,” he said as he ruffled the boy’s hair and kissed his cheek. “But I told you no fire in the manor.”

The boy’s cheeks colored even more deeply. “But papa,” he said, with a small voice. “I was careful. There’s nothing to burn in the Dawnstone Hall.”

Dorian smiled softly at the boy. “That’s mostly true,” he said, “but just the same, best to leave fire in the practice area. Too unpredictable.” Then he leaned close and whispered, “Lightning is _far_ better for indoors.” And the pair set to giggling.

“Papa,” the little girl said at last, “when can I have _sharp_ knives?” Fitzwilliam lifted one of the daggers from her hand. They had no edge at all, and a blunted tip. “When you learn not to attack your fathers with them, darling,” he said with a smile.

She pointed at the boy. “But he used fire!”

Fitzwilliam smiled, returning the practice blade. “Yes,” he agreed, “you could have used your magic too.”

She crossed her arms in a huff. “ _Everyone_ uses magic here,” she whined. “I don’t want to use magic. I want to be sneaky!”

Fitzwilliam’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled. He looked over at Dorian who was trying valiantly to keep from laughing. The mage shrugged. “She has a point,” Dorian said.

Fitzwilliam sighed and kissed the girl on the head. “And you were, sneaky, my love. I didn’t even see you behind your brother until we passed the wall-hanging of Tenebrium.” The girl beamed with pride at his words.

“Now children,” Dorian said with a sternness that was all for show. “It’s time to wash for supper. But first,” he lowered his voice in a secretive hush, “see if you can’t sneak up on Avus.”

The children smiled, mischief in their eyes, and scampered off.

 Fitzwilliam pulled himself onto his hands and knees and crawled over to Dorian. The mage turned and smiled before Fitzwilliam dropped a soft kiss on his lips.

“Bit dramatic, weren’t you?” Dorian said with a smile when they parted. “’I love you’,” he mimicked Fitzwilliam’s words.

Fitzwilliam sat back on his haunches and affected a look of affront. “This coming from _you_? Mister ‘one last kiss’?”

Dorian smirked. “Any excuse to kiss you, Amatus,” he said with a shrug. “You know that.”

Fitzwilliam couldn’t help but smile. “Should we really have set them on your father like that?” He asked, amused.

Dorian laughed. “We need to keep him on his toes! The moment he’s out of practice _one_ of the houses is bound to have a successful assassination.”

“We’re terrible parents,” Fitzwilliam said with a grin.

Dorian leaned against the wall, spread his legs and motioned for Fitzwilliam to come closer. He did, and Dorian pulled him to his chest. Fitzwilliam felt him warm against his back, and let his head fall, relaxed onto his shoulder, in the middle of the Dawnstone Hall, for all the house to see. “I think,” Dorian said softly next to his ear, “we are _fantastic_ parents, Fitzwilliam.” Dorian pressed his lips to his neck and Fitzwilliam made a soft sound of appreciation.

“Yes,” he sighed happily, “you’re probably right.”

 

VVV

 

Fitzwilliam Trevelyan walked the familiar path to the library keep. The stone stairs were worn, cold even through his heavy leather boots. His steps were heavy. It felt like he was pulling against an unseen force to lift a foot and place it upon the next step. He used to fly up these stairs. He used to feel light and joyous.  He used to have to try to hide his smile when he turned to the alcove and found Dorian there.

Now he turned, and there the mage was. There was no smile. _Maker._ Even now he took his breath away. He wanted to pull him into his arms and kiss him. That would probably shock the smirk right of his cocky face. He indulged that fantasy for a moment. He could almost feel his lips. Imagine the way his breath would catch. But no.

He was the Inquisitor. The Great Holy Hope of Southern Thedas. What he wanted? His happiness? That was the _last_ thing he could be thinking about. Dorian was a distraction he couldn’t afford. A weakness to be exploited.

Dorian looked up, spotted him standing there, watching him, and smiled. Fitzwilliam’s heart ripped in half. The mage stood, put his book down, and sauntered over.

“I need to talk to you,” Fitzwilliam said as he came to a stop before him.

“How ominous,” Dorian said with a raised eyebrow. “Has my father finally come up with a decent off to buy me from you?” The joke was painful, Fitzwilliam could not smile.

“No. It’s nothing like that,” he replied. Dorian furrowed his brow looking even more concerned.

“I wouldn’t blame you,” the mage tried again. “My father is a _very_ wealthy man.”

“I meant I wanted to talk about us,” Fitzwilliam blurted out before Dorian could go on.

Dorian laughed softly. “I see. What’s the latest news on the ‘us’ front, then?” He looked so amused.

Fitzwilliam stood silently for a moment. He knew what he _wanted_ to say. He wanted to tell Dorian that he wanted to get to know him better. He could hear that smug smile and witty tongue now: “You and I?” He would say. “People will talk!” And Fitzwilliam would say “Let them.” And kiss him. And see that smile.

Even complete denial was preferable: “There is no news.” And Dorian would say something pithy like “How dreadful. Back to being fantastic all on my own, then.” And _leer_ at him. If the mage was feeling particularly playful he’d try to make him blush. He’d say something along the lines of, “Just remember, I’ll be watching you. From behind. Where the view is best” and send Fitzwilliam scurrying off in embarrassment.

And all of those were better than what he was about to do. Fitzwilliam took a deep breath. “This…” he paused, finding his voice tight. “This thing between us can’t go on,” he said at last. His voice was low and rough with emotion. He forced himself not to break eye contact with Dorian. Something flashed in the mage’s eyes – surprise. And then as quickly as it had appeared it was gone – his face was an unreadable mask once more.

“Of course it can’t,” Dorian said very reasonably. “The Herald of Andraste carrying on with a Tevinter mage? Preposterous.”

Fitzwilliam blinked. He was… _making light_? After everything? Maybe he thought Fitzwilliam was joking. “I’m serious, Dorian,” he said.

“I didn’t doubt it for a moment,” he replied calmly. “Too bad… I was hoping for a lively Winterfest gift.”

“You…” Fitzwilliam continued confused. “You don’t sound _too_ broken up over it.”

“I could rend my garments, muss my hair…” He paused thoughtfully. “No,” he said, gravely serious. “I wouldn’t touch my hair. Let’s not get carried away.” It stung like the barb it was.

“Leave it to you to make light of it,” Fitzwilliam spat.

Dorian had the absolute gall to look injured by the remark. “I could make it difficult, your worship, but why? You have better things to worry about.” He looked away, examining his nails. “Truth be told, we probably weren’t suited to each other. Which is sad, but there it is.”

Fitzwilliam grabbed him by the collar and shoved him back into the alcove. Somewhere in the back of his mind Fitzwilliam knew it didn’t look right – the red velvet curtain was missing. And what was that he had seen out of the corner of his eye as the moved. A person. Someone watching? “So we’ll what? Leave it there?” Fitzwilliam asked angrily. Dorian looked startled for a moment. Clearly the mage hadn’t expected such a physical reaction.   

“So we shall,” Dorian said, still attempting to affect the nonchalance for which he was known. Fitzwilliam could see it cracking. “It was interesting while it lasted.”

Fitzwilliam pressed close, touched Dorian softly. One hand to his face, another taking his fingers. “Doe,” he said softly, “please.”

Finally, the mask fell away. “I won’t lie,” he said a small sad smile playing on his lips, “it could have _been_ something. But… we have to be realistic, yes?” Fitzwilliam nodded softly and broke contact. Dorian took a moment to compose himself then resumed his careless speech. “If you’ll excuse me, a bottle calls.” He walked past Fitzwilliam toward the stair. “Orlesian brand is _so_ cheap here. It’s positively criminal.”

…

Fitzwilliam didn’t know how much time had passed, but the winter ice was melting, flooding the valleys below Skyhold. He walked into the tavern to find Bull, they needed muscle on the next mission. The past few months had been rough, with no one to confide in, no one who saw him as anything less than the Inquisitor. It had hardened him. His eyes took in the room, and he spotted Bull. Bull saw him too, nodded, and began gathering his things.

While he waited Fitzwilliam allowed his gaze to wander. He wasn’t looking for Dorian, really he wasn’t, but he found him anyway. He was sitting in a far corner, flirting with a barmaid. His hand was on her hip, she was giggling. The mage swayed in his seat, clearly drunk despite the early hour. Several days of stubble darkened his jaw. Fitzwilliam glared at him, disgusted, then turned on his heel to await Bull outside.

…

And the battle was over. He’d survived, many had not. He had sent Dorian’s amulet home to his father with a letter declaring him a war-hero. He’d made the right choice, those many months ago. Because now, he had to lead the Inquisition, keep things running. If he’d allowed himself to become attached to the mage he’d be inconsolable right now, utterly useless. Instead he was efficiently managing affairs in the aftermath of bringing down Coryphaeus. Josephine was planning their wedding. Leliana was Devine. All was as it should be.

He wasn’t happy. But he was doing what must be done. He bore his burdens. He was the Inquisitor.

…

Fitzwilliam awoke with a start. At first he was disoriented. The room was dark, and he had that sick twisting feeling in his stomach that came with a dream that felt too real. Made you question reality. Wonder if you were actually awake. Unsure of your own mind.

It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t in bed. He was on the couch where he’d fallen asleep with Dorian. The fire had died down, but a veritable pile of blankets covered him. It seemed the mage had left. Whether in a fit of propriety or because of some other concern was unclear. But nothing felt real right now, nothing except the dream.

“I have to go find him,” Fitzwilliam whispered into the darkness.

He got up, wrapped himself in one of the fur-lined wool blankets, and made his way to the mage’s rooms. _Maker’s frosty ass it’s freezing_. Even fully-clothed, with the blanket, the halls were frigid.

He didn’t knock on the door when he arrived. There was no reason to disturb Dorian’s sleep and truth be told, Fitzwilliam felt a bit foolish as it was. No reason to add to his humiliation by having Dorian see it too. He crept in quietly. The door creaked, of course it did, but he latched it quietly and, calling to bear all his training, moved inside. It was noticeably warmer even though, as the darkness proved, the fire had gone to coals.

Fitzwilliam moved to the bed and looked down. Dorian slept peacefully. Pale moonlight fell across the bed, illuminating half of the mage’s face. Fitzwilliam reached out, brushing his mussed hair back. Touching him brought the world into sharp focus. The doubt of he had felt faded away like so much fog. He was here. All was well. Fitzwilliam could leave now. But even as he thought it he found his feet unwilling to obey.

He stood and looked at Dorian. He must have looked a sight. He was in a rumpled suit, wrapped in a fur throw, staring at a sleeping mage. And he stood there. Time was moving in the strange way it did when sleep had been fleeting. He couldn’t tell if he remained for minutes or hours. Eventually, his dry eyes fluttered with fatigue.

He moved to the chair near the hearth, curling up in it so that he could see Dorian by simply opening his eyes, if need be, and promptly fell back asleep, content in knowing everything was okay. The dream had been a lie.

 

^V^V^V^

 

Dorian sat trying to read. The light through the window was lovely, bright, but cold. Winter was on them properly. Winterfest would be on them soon. Perhaps he’d get his Inquisitor a gift. Just a little thing, to show his… affection. He returned his eyes to the book, bringing them to focus on the words. It was useless, all he wanted to do was go find Fitzwilliam. That, of course, would be foolish. He was likely in the war room. He could hardly just barge in, sweep the figures of the table, and snog him right there in front of the council.

Dorian laughed softly. It _was_ a fairly humorous image.

Suddenly, the skin on the back of his neck and hands was prickling. He looked up, slowly pulling his gaze to the right.

He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face when he saw Fitzwilliam standing there. Not anymore than he could stop the hitch in his breathing. He was a vision. The moment this fight was over Dorian was getting the man a new suit. The off-white was… fine. But it didn’t do enough for his coloring. The red of the formal uniforms they’d worn to the Winter Palace? In those Fitzwilliam had practically glowed.

He stood, putting his book down and walked over. _Who is that?_ Dorian wondered. The library was often occupied but he didn’t recognize the person just outside his peripheral vision. He tried to turn and look but the image seemed to slip just out of view no matter how he moved his head.

“I need to talk to you,” Fitzwilliam said as he came to a stop before him. It pulled Dorian’s attention back.

“About how much you adore me, I assume. I hear that so often,” Dorian replied with a smirk. 

Fitzwilliam reached for him, pulling him close. “Too often?” He asked softly.

Dorian smiled and shook his head slowly, moving closer to his lips. “No,” he whispered. Their lips met, slow and sweet and lingering. And then they parted lips and hands, until they were standing close, but no longer wrapped about each other.

“I thought we could discuss what happens… after,” Fitzwilliam said, suddenly serious.

“Ah, yes,” Dorian said softly. “After. Dreadful thing – After.” He felt his stomach clench. “Let’s see. Assuming one or both of us aren’t slaughtered along the way, what do you wish to happen?” He’d known this conversation was coming sooner or later. He thought on it carefully. “We could go our separate ways, if you prefer. I’ve been a port in a storm before. I would understand.”

“Is that what you want?” Fitzwilliam asked. He looked… worried.

“ _You’re_ the Inquisitor,” Dorian said. “ _You’re_ the one with responsibilities. I am but an adornment upon your arm.”

“All of a sudden, that’s all you are?” Fitzwilliam quipped disbelievingly. “Modesty? From _you_?”

“That’s not _all_ I am,” he conceded. “But nor am I the great holy hope of Southern Thedas.”

Fitzwilliam smirked, “It’s still early,” he joked.

Dorian was in no mood. “You joke,” he said sternly. “But one day they’ll write books about you. Boring ones that get it all wrong. Just watch.”

“Stop playing games,” Fitzwilliam sighed. “I want an answer.”

Even that made Dorian smile. He made a show, sighing dramatically, “Fine. The Inquisitor is wearing the serious hat today, I see.”

“It’s not a hat,” Fitzwilliam said awkwardly.

“I…” Dorian began nervously. “I don’t know what the future holds,” he said at last. “For _us_ or… _anything._ That’s my honest answer.”

Fitzwilliam moved close again, entwining their fingers. His voice was low, and tender. “I don’t need to know that, Doe,” he said softly. “I just need to know you’ll be there, if you can.”

Dorian couldn’t speak. His throat was tight with emotion. He nodded. Fitzwilliam kissed him, the world melted away.

 

VVV

 

Dorian came over and sat on the bed. “Not that I couldn’t suggest some changes. Your taste is a little… austere.”

He felt Fitzwilliam’s fingers tracing over the bare skin of his back. “Austere, huh?” He replied. “Have something on your mind?” Fitzwilliam was smiling softly. Then his face changed, he frowned. “You’re having second thoughts.”

“I’m just… curious where this goes, you and I,” he admitted. Maker, he was sitting naked on an Orlesian sleigh bed… _confessing._ “We’ve had fun. Perfectly reasonable to leave it here. Get on with the business of killing archdemons and such.”

“Tell me what you want, Dorian,” Fitzwilliam replied, sitting up beside him.

“All on me then?” Dorian asked unhappily.

“Hardly, I had my say. Now have yours.” Fitzwilliam took Dorian’s hand in his own and gently traced his fingertips across his palm.

“I…” the mage sighed. “I like you. More than I should. More than might be wise. We end it here, I walk away. I won’t be pleased, but I’d rather now, than later. Later might be dangerous.” He paused for a moment looking down at their entangled hands. “It might be… harder, then,” Dorian finally choked out.

Fitzwilliam was quiet, then he nodded. “Is there anything wrong with having fun?” It hit Dorian like a blow and he flinched. “Why do we need to stop now?”

Dorian steeled himself, put on a mask of calm. “Because later might be too difficult,” he said again. Repeating his earlier sentiment. Clearly Fitzwilliam didn’t understand. “Perhaps this is something with can speak on later… once we see whether you or I survive this whole experience.” Dorian stood and collected his bits of clothing. They’d been strewn about the room. He already felt emotionally naked, he’d rather not be physically naked too.

He dressed, and turned to look at Fitzwilliam one last time. “Until then,” Dorian sighed, “I need to go.”

…

“It might be… harder, then,” Dorian finally choked out.

“All right,” Fitzwilliam agreed. “Perhaps this is all it should be.”

Dorian nodded, upset, but understanding. “True enough,” he sighed. “We have other things with which to concern ourselves. Coryphaeus, dragons, any number of interesting deaths…”

Dorian stood and collected his bits of clothing. They’d been strewn about the room. He already felt emotionally naked, he’d rather not be physically naked too. It felt like there were eyes on him. As if with a little focus he could see people watching him from the balcony above Fitzwilliam’s bed. He actually looked. For a moment there seemed to be a shadow of a person, but he pulled his shirt over his head, and when he looked again there was nothing.

He finished dressing, and turned to look at Fitzwilliam one last time. “It was fun,” he said with an easiness he did not feel. “Get new curtains. These ones are grisly.”

…

Spring came. Dorian spent his time in the tavern. He grew to hate Tevinter, knowing he could never hope to save it, to change it. He would wither into obscurity. He drank. He solicited. He tried to change. He flirted with the tavern ladies. Got handsy. Made drunken advances.

He learned.

Learned to imagine he was someone else. Learned to bed a woman.

Learned to live the lie.

He went home.

Somewhere deep inside, some forgotten Dorian was screaming.

 

VVV

 

Dorian awoke, panting, sweating. _Reaching_ in the darkness. He didn’t know for what. A light? Something to show him he was in his small quarters in Skyhold. Not in Minrathous. He lifted his hand and gathered his focus. Fire sprang to life, licking his fingers, filling his hand. The flickering light illuminated his rooms.

Shabby, worn, comfortable. _Skyhold_. And only then did he feel his pulse slowing.

“What in the Maker’s name!?” He shouted into the darkness, angry with the things his mind had shown him.  

“Dorian?” A groggy voice came from near the hearth. His eyes sought the Inquisitor out. He was curled in the sitting chair before the fire. It had died down to the dim orange glow of coals.

Dorian climbed out of his bed, ignoring the cold, and the uncomfortable chill the floor infused into his bare feet. He walked over to the chair, used the fire to make sure it was Fitzwilliam and then waved his hand, dismissing it. He knelt on the hard stone floor as Fitzwilliam turned and put his feet forward. They rested just before Dorian’s knees. The mage stared up at him in awe for a moment then wrapped his arms around his waist. He hugged him close. Dorian felt Fitzwilliam petting his hair. It was long minutes before either of them spoke.

Finally, the cold and the stone were too much. Dorian stood and led Fitzwilliam to his bed. They sat beside each other. Dorian kept their hands entwined, unwilling to break physical contact.

“What happened?” Fitzwilliam asked quietly. “Are you okay?”

Dorian nodded, realized it was too dark to see properly, and cleared his throat. “I…uh,” he began, “I had the oddest dreams. At first they were quite nice, but then…” He paused, looking over at Fitzwilliam, seeing only his silhouette. “Wait a moment, why are you here?”

“What?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“Why is the Herald of Andraste sleeping in my reading chair,” Dorian said. “Not even in my bed, mind you. Which at least you’ve set a precedent for. You snuck into my rooms whilst I slept and… settled for my chair?”

He felt Fitzwilliam fidget. “I uh… I also had bad dreams,” he said sheepishly. Dorian laughed. Loudly. For a long time. Finally, he settled into a small set of chuckles. “Something funny, Dorian?” Fitzwilliam said irritably.

Dorian wiped at his eyes. “The Herald of Andraste had a bad dream,” he said, chuckling, “and came to the big, bad Tevinter mage for comfort.” He laughed again. “It’s too funny, Fitz.”

Fitzwilliam let out a little laugh of his own. “I wouldn’t have come, only they were about you,” he admitted.

“About me?” Dorian asked. The giggles were gone. Why in the Maker’s name would they _both_ be having nightmares about each other? He tried to calm himself. They’d had a rough day. It was only natural the anxiety would come out in a dream. There was no reason to go looking for even more weirdness in their lives.

“Yes.” Fitzwilliam pulled on his arm, bringing him closer on the bed so that their sides were pressed together. Dorian felt Fitzwilliam shift, resting his head on Dorian’s shoulder.

“What happened?” Dorian asked. His voice was hushed.

When he replied, Fitzwilliam’s was too. “They started off pleasant enough… but then I… made a different choice,” he said. Dorian could hear the hurt in his words. “I chose duty over love.”

“How honorable,” Dorian said. He tried to make light, to demonstrate to Fitzwilliam that dreams are faff and fluff but if he was honest he didn’t even believe himself.

Fitzwilliam shook his head, rocking on Dorian’s shoulder. “It was terrible, Doe. I told you we had to end things because I needed to focus on the Inquisition. And then I was miserable and you were miserable. You died in the fighting. I married. I lost myself. I wasn’t Fitzwilliam anymore. I was the Inquisitor. And I remember…” his voice caught and Dorian turned, urging Fitzwilliam too look at him in the only light the dim moonbeams through the window. His fingers stroked his cheek softly. Coaxing the hurt out. “I remember thinking I had done the right thing, ending it with you. Because you had died. And if we’d been involved and you’d died I wouldn’t have been able to continue leading.” Dorian felt tears hitting his fingers, saw them glinting in the night. “I sacrificed you,” he sobbed and buried his face in the crook of Dorian’s neck. Dorian pulled him close and stroked his back.

 _Maker this is an odd business._ He thought as he consoled Fitzwilliam. “No,” he said finally, “You didn’t, Fitz. I’m right here.” Dorian held him until the sniffling stopped and Fitzwilliam pulled back, wiping at his eyes.

“So what was _your_ nightmare about?” Fitzwilliam said at last.

Dorian felt his body go tense. “Well,” he said slowly, “I didn’t die. So that’s good I suppose.”

“Dorian,” Fitzwilliam said, gentle reprimand in his tone.

Dorian sighed. “I… asked where things between us were going. After the first time we… you and I…” he was gesticulating, rolling his hand in the dark, at a loss for the words, or simply unwilling to say them, he wasn’t sure which.

“You dreamt about our conversation after we slept together?” Fitzwilliam was clearly befuddled. “Now? It’s been ages. That was at the end of summer. It’s nearly Winterfest.”

Dorian rubbed his face. “I know that, Fitz. Don’t ask me to explain the dream realm.” He felt Fitzwilliam’s hand come out and grab his, twining their fingers, holding, squeezing. “I apologize,” he sighed.

“So what happened?”

“It was odd,” he said slowly. He brought his other hand to where theirs were joined and rubbed his fingers over the back of Fitzwilliam’s hand. “I saw… different… possibilities. Different reactions. But either way after you bedded me you dismissed me.” He felt Fitzwilliam’s hand close tightly. “You said it was a bit of fun or you agreed with me that stopping was better...” he felt a tear move slowly down his cheek.

“And that’s…all?” Fitzwilliam asked. He sounded hopeful.

“No,” Dorian’s voice was tight.

“Then what?”

“Then I lost myself. In drink, in women…”

“Women!?” Fitzwilliam legitimately startled. If it had been brighter in the room Dorian was sure he would have seen the man gapping at him.

“Yes, I know,” Dorian said, trying to be cavalier. “Terribly cliché.”

“And then?” Fitzwilliam’s voice was hardly a whisper. He didn’t want to hear what was next any more than Dorian wanted to tell him.

“And then I went home. Lived the lie,” he said softly.

“And you’re not upset?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“No…” Dorian began, but he’d forgotten. The last moment of the dream. The screaming. The part of him on the inside that was poisoned into submission. The real Dorian, trapped… and _screaming._ He shuddered. “Yes,” he choked out. “That wasn’t living.”

Fitzwilliam leaned back onto the bed, pulling Dorian down with him, holding him close, pressing soft fluttering kisses over his exposed skin. There was no passion in his actions, no _need_. It was something different, something pure. _Comfort_ , Dorian realized. He hadn’t even known how much he had needed it until Fitzwilliam was already acting. Maker, the man knew Dorian better than he knew himself. 

“I’m tired,” Dorian found himself yawning a little while later.

“I should go back to my rooms,” Fitzwilliam replied, pressing a kiss to the mage’s shoulder.

“Stay until I fall back asleep?” Dorian felt childish asking someone to stay with him because he was afraid of a dream, but couldn’t bring himself to care. Fitzwilliam didn’t answer right away. Worry started to creep in. Maybe he wouldn’t stay.

“Of course.” Fitzwilliam’s voice came, soft, sweet.

A moment later, blackness took him.

 

VVV

 

AN: Well, this is the longest chapter to date. I know it’s a bit weird but I hope you liked it.

AAAAAAAANNNNNNDDD THIS MARKS THE HALF-WAY POINT OF BIRTHRIGHTS!

So, what I want to know is: what were your favorite moments so far? What made you smile? What broke your heart? What made you want to punch Dorian or Fitz or ME? What do you hope will happen before the story ends? Predictions? Theories?

And just anything else you want to say. This is your moment to let me know all your hopes and dreams for this fic! I know you’re a quiet lot, and I respect that. But do send a PM or write a comment and tell me one or many of these things! Just this once. Shhhh, I won’t tell. :P

On a personal note I am going to be out of town for several days. A close friend’s mother has passed and I am going to his home to help with preparations and to help care for his children. So, if I do not post before the 21st (self-imposed one-week deadline) please forgive me, I shall be quite busy.

As always thank you for all your love, and support (and all your critiques too)!


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 13

                Dorian blinked awake. Sunlight fell across his face. That fact alerted him to the fact that it was later than he tended to get up, provided he hadn’t been drinking. _If I hurry I might still make first meal in the hall._ He stood and dressed before continuing with his routine. Routines were good. They were a thing to get lost in. A way to avoid thinking of the night before. The terrible dream. He shuddered, the memory coming unbidden to his mind. No, the best thing to do was to go about his day. They had only been dreams, after all. No need to be dramatic.

Cleaned, dressed and walking with a swagger that was all show, Dorian headed to the hall. Upon arrival he found it was mostly empty. That was to be expected. All the respectable occupants of Skyhold had risen and dined at an appropriate time. He moved with a practiced casualness he didn’t feel to one of the long benches. There was still some bread in the communal bowl in the middle of the table, and he reached for it, ripping it in half and munching quietly as a serving boy approached. The boy couldn’t have been more than, eight, perhaps? He brought a bowl of porridge, a small meat pie, and a cup of bitter tea. Dorian thanked him with a smile and a nod and was rewarded with a one in turn. Suddenly, Dorian felt lighter.

He raised the cup to his lips, sipping, and grimaced – the tea had gone a bit cold. Still, he had no right to complain. He’d often arrived well after first meal and been left to fend entirely for himself. Given that, he felt rather fortunate that so much food had been left this morning. He tucked in, and was about halfway through his meal before Cole sat to his left.

Dorian paused, in his efforts, and looked at the boy. Cole looked back, saying nothing. Dorian lifted an eyebrow, questioningly, trying to encourage him to talk. Cole tried to mirror the mage, but only managed to raise both eyebrows and look puzzled. Cole reached up, touching his eyebrows delicately as if expecting them to be elsewhere. Dorian smiled, chuckling softly, and reached for the cup of tea.

“Something I can do for you, Cole?” He asked, drinking slowly.

“I made sure they saved you a plate,” Cole said. His voice was hushed, secretive.

Dorian blinked. Well, that explained why there had been so much food available. And why the tea had gone cold. Dorian looked into the cup in his hands, spinning it slowly. “How did you know I would be late?” He asked, looking back up at the boy.

“The dreams,” he said. His voice did not change from the somewhat conspiratorial tone he had adopted. “They disrupted your sleep.”

Dorian felt his eyes go wide with surprise, then furrowed his brow in annoyance. Of _course_ Cole had felt that. It had been horrifying. He’d been a fool not to realize Cole would come. He glanced about, finding the hall blissfully sparse. At least no one was about to overhear what Cole would say. Dorian sipped his tea again, nodded, but said nothing.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Cole said softly. “You didn’t make the dreams. Not _all_ of it.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes. “Of course I made then, Cole,” he said gently. “That is how dreams work. Your mind picks up on your desires or fears and it makes them for you. But you don’t need to worry. They’re just dreams.”

Cole looked at him sadly and shook his head. “But the dreams are hurting you, Dorian.”

A shiver went down his spine. _The screaming_. He forced a chuckle he didn’t feel. “Dreams can’t _hurt_ , Cole. I’m fine.”

“You aren’t. You’ve been trying to hide from them.” Cole’s voice was quiet, his thoughts seemed to be leagues off. “But they’re there. On the edge of your vision. Trailing behind. You’re afraid if you look or stop running they’ll catch you. Bleed through. Become real.” He looked intently at Dorian then said, in that dreamy way of his, “I won’t lie, it could have _been_ something. But… we have to be realistic, yes?” Dorian’s own words, spoken back to him. It was eerie and off-putting.

Dorian shivered, felt his smile falter and fall away. “How did you pull that out? It isn’t even a memory.”

“It’s a memory of a shadow,” Cole replied. “Or a shadow of a memory. And even so, you’re afraid it’s real. Afraid it is reality and this is the dream. Because the nightmare feels more real. Hurting. Not happiness.” Dorian was struck by Cole’s face. He looked so sad, as if he might cry for the mage.

Dorian’s voice wavered when he spoke, too heavy with emotion to hold up, “Cole,” he reached out, clasping the boy’s shoulder affably. “You don’t need to do this. I’m okay.” The words felt hollow. He’d been trying to convince himself he was okay, and now he was trying to convince Cole.

“It wasn’t your fault, Dorian,” Cole said again. “It was the man. The man in your dreams. Watching. They were his dreams. He made them and gave them to you. I… I don’t know why.” Cole stared off into empty space, eye unfocused.

“What?” Dorian said, suddenly befuddled.

“The man in your dreams, watching,” he repeated.

“Wha… how do you know this?” Dorian asked for the first time. His thoughts were sluggish. He should have asked sooner. Of course, each time he had seen the observer it had done just that – observed. He’d blended into the background. Hardly worth noting among all the things happening in the dream. He’d easily dismissed the figure.  Perhaps that had been foolish.

“I was drawn to them,” Cole said. “Last night. I don’t need to sleep. I felt the hurt. And followed it.” He turned and looked at Dorian, something like pride on his face, a small smile. “It was hard, Dorian. Going to your room didn’t help, the pain was in your head!”

Dorian tried to keep calm, to not to think about how off-putting it was to think of Cole standing over his bed watching him sleep. “And… how did you follow, then?” He asked slowly.

“I slept!” Cole exclaimed triumphantly. “I slept and I followed my dream to your dream. I could see it all happening from the outside like… like a play!”

Despite the odd conversation and circumstances Dorian couldn’t help but smile. Cole had seen the children in a village just outside Skyhold putting on a production no more than a week and a half past. They had called it a play, though it had really been a very pale image of the real thing. Cole had been delighted. And, it was interesting to note, Cole was learning. Taking in examples from his everyday life and applying them to new situations. It was _fascinating_. _Maybe if I can get him to explain the process he could…_ Dorian stopped. He was trying to distract his mind. And doing a damn-fine job, if he did say so himself. He pulled his focus together and readdressed the boy. “That’s very good, Cole.” He smiled. That part came easy. He was, in all honesty, proud of Cole. Of course he was. Cole beamed back.

“The man didn’t belong, Dorian,” Cole lowered his voice once more, whispering. “He was in your dream, but you didn’t dream him.”

This was getting very confusing. Dorian had already considered approaching Solas. The elf had experience with the Fade. Dorian had thought perhaps he might have some insight as to why he and the Inquisitor were having nightmares at practically the same time. But if what Cole was saying was accurate then they had bigger questions to answer. If someone were _in_ his dream? Well, even if they hadn’t been manipulating him, it would have been troubling. His subconscious mind might serve to be a wonderful spy, given the right motivation.

He tried to think about what he’d said in the dreams. If he’d given anything away. Anything that could be used to hurt Fitzwilliam. But his head was buzzing. He couldn’t focus.

Dorian finished his tea, placing the cup gently on the table. “Is there anything else you want to tell me about the dreams, Cole?” He asked seriously.

Cole was quiet for a moment, his head turned, considering Dorian’s question. When he looked back he said, “You’re hurting less. But I didn’t fix anything. Why is the hurt less, Dorian?”

Dorian smiled softly. “Because, Cole, if you’re right, and I didn’t dream these dreams, then I’m not torturing myself,” he explained.

Cole screwed up his face, confusion furrowed the boy’s brow. “But, Dorian,” he said, “If I’m right, someone else is torturing you.”

Dorian laughed and clapped the boy on the shoulder, “ _Exactly!_ ”

Cole blinked. “And that’s… good?”

Dorian smirked and leaned over, replying in a conspiratorial hush, “Yes, Cole. It’s very good.”

“Why?” Cole whispered back. He might not have quite understood Dorian’s actions or body language but he was picking up it. And he seemed to have learned enough now to mimic it.  

“Because that means there’s a threat. And where there’s a threat there’s a target,” Dorian explained. “And where there’s a target,” he concluded, “I can hurl fire.”

They stayed like that, hunched and looking intently at one another, for a moment while Cole processed Dorian’s words. Finally, loudly, and right into Dorian’s poor ill-abused ear he exclaimed, “I get it!”

Dorian pulled back violently, turning away. “Maker, Cole. Not so loud!” He chuffed.

“I get it,” Cole repeated in a whisper.

Dorian laughed, scooped up what was left of his meat pie, and stood. He clapped Cole on the back as he left calling, “Thank you, Cole. I shall put this to good use,” over his shoulder as he munched and made his way to the bottom of the rotunda. He had an odd elven mage to find.

Which took all of two minutes to do. Solas did not turn or address Dorian as he entered. This room at the bottom of the keep was frequently used as a pass-through for those going to or from the rookery or library. Solas, it seemed, made a habit of ignoring intrusions. Dorian finished his breakfast, took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands and mouth, and then approached.

“Solas,” Dorian attempted to come off as approachable. Given that the elf looked at him evenly, waiting in silence, perhaps he’d not succeeded. So they weren’t exactly friends. But they were both scholars. He changed gears. The jovial, over-friendly tone shifted into something more serious, with just a hint of conspiratorial. “I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about the Fade. Dreaming and the Fade, in particular.”

That seemed to draw the elf’s interest. “Of course,” he said, putting down the book he had been perusing.

“Last night I had on odd dream, well more of a nightmare, really.” He paused thoughtfully and then said with some muddle, “Actually, it was a bit of both, now that I think on it.”

Solas waited patiently and _silently_ for him to make sense.

He sighed heavily. “They shifted about a bit. From normal into horrifying and disjointed. But that isn’t what concerns me.” He looked to Solas for a reaction. He found none. Just that same implacable stance. The elf stood, an annoyingly blank expression on his face. “There was someone watching me,” Dorian explained. “A figure whom I could never see clearly. I was wondering if it might have been a Somniari.”

Well, that had done it. Solas’s eyebrows lifted and his eyes went wide with interest. “A Somniari?” He asked.

“Somniari,” Dorian repeated. “A dreamer. Not one who dreams, as the Tevene implies, but one who manipulates them.” He had a feeling the explaining was unnecessary, as Solas had most likely understood the term. But he found he needed to talk. The silence was too oppressive.

“A Dreamwalker,” Solas said with a nod. “If it is I would be worried, indeed.” Solas moved around the desk and sat in the chair there. Dorian remained standing and began to pace.

“Worried?” Dorian asked.

Solas nodded, clasping his hands before him, elbows on the table, and rested them just over his lips.

“How worried?” Dorian asked. He looked over to see Solas shrug.

“That is dependent upon the reason for their actions,” he said slowly. “You are, naturally, a prime target for many reasons. I would hear your account of the dreams.”

The way he made it seem like an order irked Dorian. But the elf was the most likely to have valuable information. So he smothered the annoyance and began. “It started in the alcove I frequent, in the library…”

Dorian gave as complete of a picture as he could. Solas occasionally stopped him, asking this question or that, but by and large he simply let Dorian talk. “And that’s all?” The elf said when Dorian had ceased.

“And then I woke, yes” Dorian said softly. He’d left out the screaming. He couldn’t bear to share something so intimate with Solas. The elf was a valued colleague and fellow scholar. He respected him. He trusted him. But they weren’t exactly close. “Theories?”

“It sounds to me,” Solas said slowly, “that your dreams _were_ being influenced.”

A shiver went down Dorian’s spine. “I feared as much. But why?” He asked.

Solas stood and began walking about the room. “While I concur that spying on your dreams and interacting with you could turn you into a very useful spy, this accounting does not seem to support such a theory as the purpose.” he said. “I suspect the person, this observer, would have asked you questions. The dreams you had, the way they were manipulated. They didn’t really lend themselves to the gathering of information.”

Dorian nodded, stroking his chin and the small patch of facial hair just below his lower lip. “I agree,” he said. “I was initially worried about spying, but the dreams the observer created they weren’t…” he cleared his throat. “They would not have been useful for amassing intelligence on the Inquisition.”

“No,” Solas said. “I think it more likely that you _were_ the target. Perhaps they were trying to send you a message. Or drive you mad.” He shook his head. Talking to Dorian, but seeming to be thinking aloud. “Madness doesn’t fit either. They could have shown you far worse things, were that the objective.” Dorian remembered the screaming. “I think,” Solas continued, “it is more likely that someone is trying to tell you something. But who or why is something I am not best suited to discover. Perhaps the Qunari.”

Dorian nodded. “I’m more interest in the _how_ ,” Dorian said. “If I’m honest. How does one enter the fade? Not to mention then invading another’s mind through their dreams. Cole said he’d managed it, entering my dream, that is.”

That piqued Solas’s interest. “He did? That’s astounding. Of course Cole is a spirit, and therefore will have different abilities. But to enter dreams!” Dorian swore he saw Solas smile. “That talent has been lost for centuries.”

“That…” Dorian drawled. “Something is scratching at the back of my mind about spirits and dreaming…” Dorian paused. He stared at nothing, thinking intently. “If only I had a copy of Licinius’s _Somnium_ … I’m sure I remember reading something about it.” 

Solas nodded, “That would be a serviceable starting point. The Vintish scholars appropriated much from the ancient Elvish. One of the older scholars of magic is likely to have known of Dreamwalkers. And Licinius’s work is, by far, the most complete on the topic. I could suggest some rarer texts but we’d have to put in a requisition request.”

Dorian felt the tingle of excitement he often got when he delved into new research. “I could have sworn I saw something of Licinius’s just recently. It hadn’t been shelved properly, _of course_ ,” he sighed heavily. “But I think I could find it again. Could you excuse me? I shall return when I locate the text.”

“Of course,” Solas said, bowing slightly. “I await your return.”

Dorian turned moving toward the stair. “Perhaps it was a test,” he heard Solas say, almost absentmindedly. “Perhaps someone was probing his mind to see how he would react to such an invasion.” Dorian pondered his words, but made his way to the library.

VVV

 

 

Fitzwilliam had done it. He’d made it out of Skyhold, on his own, without anyone stopping or following. It was a miracle. He breathed deeply. The air was crisp and cold, as it should be given how quickly Winterfest was approaching. But the sun was bright and the walk to the hot-spring clearing would warm him. He moved with all his training. Careful not to disturb branch or twig or shrub. Truth be told getting out of Skyhold had been loads easier than moving through a winter forest. In Skyhold there had been people and noise and distraction. Here? There were no leaves to muffle your sound, snow showed your trail, animals would pick up on you and bolt. This was _real_ practice.

So it was with some measure of pride Fitzwilliam stepped onto the spongey green moss which surrounded the clearing. He smiled to himself, and breathed in a long even breath. It had been too long since he had had a moment alone. Of course, he’d almost rather be spending it with Dorian. _Almost._ The dreams last night had thrown him off-kilter, and he wasn’t going to be any good to anyone for a while. So, he’d avoided the strategy meeting in the war room, as well as the mustached mage he’d left the night before.

“You’re good at that,” Cole’s voice came from behind him.

“Maker’s blushing butt cheeks!” Fitzwilliam swore, spinning around and pulling a dagger – the result the drilled reflexes he had just been exercising. Cole snickered, seemingly unperturbed with the action. “How did you find me?”

“I followed you,” Cole replied slowly, as if it had been the simplest thing in the world and he were explaining to a child.  

“I was careful. There was hardly a whisper of a trail!” Fitzwilliam shoved the dagger back into its sheath – _violently_.

“Yes,” Cole said with a grin. “You were very good. I didn’t see anything!” Fitzwilliam growled softly. Cole’s grin faded. “You’re angry.” His voice lilted. He was perplexed by Fitzwilliam’s ire. And really he had no right to be this upset at the boy. But it was frustrating. Fitzwilliam had thought he’d done so well.

“No, I’m sorry Cole,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Just… how did you follow me?”

“You’re hurting,” he replied. He looked and sounded for all the world as if that fact had been obvious. “I followed the hurt.”

“I’m not hurting,” Fitzwilliam said dismissively. Cole shook his head.

“You are. From the dream.” The look Cole gave him then reminded him of his mother. It was concerned and caring but also a bit like he’d been found out so there was no use pretending. Such an odd look, coming from Cole.

And, Maker help him, it all came crashing back down on him. He’d tried to forget, to put the dream aside and move on like a reasonable human, really he had. But he couldn’t. He gave up. Fitzwilliam sat upon the mossy forest floor. Well, perhaps it was less a sit and more of a controlled fall onto his backside. “Why would I dream of Dorian dying, Cole?” He asked. His voice sounded hollow to his own ears.

Cole sat beside him. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “You didn’t. It was the man in the dream. The watcher. He… changed it.”

“What?” Fitzwilliam asked. His head was spinning.

“The watcher. He changed your dreams. I only saw the end of yours,” Cole confessed. “You began before Dorian and I had trouble navigating the fade as I slept. But I saw him there. He was… pulling on your dream like… like weaving wool.” His voiced sounded far off, as it often did. As if he wasn’t wholly with Fitzwilliam but part of him was somewhere else, seeing and hearing things Fitzwilliam couldn’t.

The Inquisitor blinked. “There was someone in my dream?” Cole nodded. “And I didn’t… _dream_ them?” Cole shook his head. “Why?” Cole shrugged. “Brilliant,” Fitzwilliam muttered. “So helpful.”

“I am trying,” Cole said sadly. “I want to help the hurt.”

Fitzwilliam patted the boy on the back, and sat silently, pondering. “Cole?” He said. “If he was changing my dream could you see what it had been? Before? Like… the yarn for a tapestry before it’s seen the loom?”

Cole tilted his head thoughtfully and took his time responding. Fitzwilliam had begun looking around the clearing. It was warmer hear, so there had always been more Elfroot than usual. But now it was _everywhere._ Bunches and bunches of it. _That’s odd_. _Helpful, but odd._ “I think so,” Cole said, pulling Fitz’s attention back. “I think whatever you had been dreaming before I got there was mostly your own. The good dream. You had a good dream, didn’t you? Dorian did.”

Fitzwilliam nodded. “I did. I was a beautiful dream. Impossible, but lovely.” His heart ached a little, remembering the smiling faces of the children, Dorian’s easy way with him. The feeling of home.

“When you learn not to attack your fathers with them, darling,” Cole said distantly, pulling the memory from Fitzwilliam’s head.

Fitzwilliam nodded, remaining quiet. There was something bothering him about that dream. Something tucked into the back of his mind. If he could just dig it out… He remembered, suddenly. A small detail. He had thought he’d seen a third creature running down the halls after him. But it hadn’t followed. It had _watched_. “I don’t think that dream was mine either.”

Cole shook his head. “It had to be,” he said sincerely. “At least a grain of it. We cannot make dreams from nothing, Inquisitor.” His voice went soft, so soft it was hard to hear his words. “There must be a seed. A string. Truth.” The boy had lifted an acorn from the ground and placed it in his palm. He stared at it intently. “The good dream is in you somewhere. And the bad. I think the man wanted you to see both.” His hand closed around the acorn and he tucked it into a pocket. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, as he looked up at Fitzwilliam from under the brim of the ridiculous hat. “I don’t know why.”

Fitzwilliam gapped at the boy. “Is… is such a thing possible?” He asked. His voice had gone to a hush as well.

Cole nodded. “I will try to talk to him. He did not try to hurt me. I don’t think it was a demon. He had hurt, though,” he whispered. “Such hurt. And I did not have a raven. He needed to see a raven.”

Fitzwilliam stood then, confused in the way he often was after a conversation with the boy. “I should probably try to find out more information,” he sighed. He had been hoping for some solace, but it seemed now that even that would not rid him of the feeling the dreams had left behind. “I think I’ll head back to Skyhold, Cole. Will you join me?”

Cole stayed seated and shook his head. “No,” he said gently.

Fitzwilliam nodded and began to leave, but stopped turning back. He approached Cole and squatted before the boy so he could look at his face. Cole so often hid it. “Thank you,” he said once Cole had looked up at him. “You’re a good friend, Cole.”

Cole’s face burst into a grin, and Fitzwilliam couldn’t help but think how much less awkward the boy looked when he smiled. “You are welcome!” Cole said enthusiastically. “You are a good friend too!”

Fitzwilliam chuckled and pat Cole on the shoulder before rising to his full height once more. “I wonder why there is so much elfroot here now,” he mused aloud as he began to leave the clearing once more.

“Dorian did it,” Cole said, stopping Fitzwilliam in his tracks.

“What?” He asked, turning around to look at the boy on the ground again. Cole sat, legs crossed, looking around the clearing with a serene expression.

“Dorian and Bull came to this place,” he said, absentmindedly, as if answering the question out of rote, thinking it had no significance. “They spent a long time in this clearing. Bull was very tired. Then they went to the cave. Dorian was hurting. I heard him scream. But Bull carried him back and put him to bed. When they left the elfroot was budding.”

Fitzwilliam furrowed his brow. _Well that’s concerning._ He wasn’t sure how Bull fit in but if Dorian had made the elfroot flourish _and_ he had hurt himself… that sounded disturbingly close to blood magic… “Goodbye, Cole.” He said, leaving at last, and making his way to Skyhold. Cole did not reply. The Inquisitor heard the boy humming to himself as he navigated the detritus of the wood.

When he arrived back he made his way to Solas. He ignored several message runners, going as far as to glare at one until he slowly backed away. He was a man on a mission. And the elf was the only one he could think of who might have some idea what in the Creator’s name was going on. He entered the rotunda to find Solas pacing, contemplatively.

It wasn’t long before he looked up. “Inquisitor,” he said. He sounded surprised. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. Can I be of assistance?”

Fitzwilliam did not waste time. He told Solas of the nightmare, and the conversation with Cole. He left out the dream in which he and Dorian were fathers. That was too intimate a detail. He hadn’t even told Dorian, after all.

When he was done Solas’s eyes were wide and confused. “Well?” Fitzwilliam asked.

The elf blinked a few times before he managed to pull his face back into the mask of composed calm he tended to affect. “As I told Dorian,” he said slowly, “it seems as if someone is testing you through your dreams. Someone who has enough power to enter the fade and find your dreams is dangerous, to say the least.”

That was worrisome. _Wait. WHAT?_ “As you told Dorian?” Fitzwilliam found he was actually _proud_ of how unruffled he sounded. His heart was racing.

The elf nodded. “Of course, he was just here, inquiring about the experience. I assumed you had sent him as you were busy with other tasks.” There was a question in those words, though left unvoiced.

“I didn’t know Dorian had come to see you,” Fitz answered.

Solas nodded. “Well,” he said carefully. “He and I are working on it.”

Fitz nodded, feeling a bit relieved that someone with the time to dedicate was seeing to it. But also worried. He’d known Dorian hadn’t been left _unaffected_ by the event, but he didn’t realize the mage has been so concerned that he would seek out Solas’s help. “That’s reassuring,” he said, nodding gratefully to the elf. “Thank you for your efforts. Let me know what you find.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Solas said.

“I’ve found it, Solas,” Dorian’s voice came down from the stone stairway, sounding echoed and odd. It became clearer as he descended the final steps. “There’s a brilliant passage in here,” he continued, nose in book, completely oblivious to Fitzwilliam’s presence, “about the Somniari. You were right, the oldest records are of the ancient elves, but the trick has seen a fascinating evolution…” he trailed off, stopping short as he finally glanced up and noticed the occupants of the room. Just in time, too. He’d almost run straight into the Inquisitor.

The men looked at one another. Fitzwilliam felt his face going red even as he noticed the blush creeping up Dorian’s neck.

“Wha… what are _you_ doing here?” Dorian asked, eyes darting franticly between Solas and Fitzwilliam.

“What?” Fitzwilliam replied, stammering. “N… Nothing. Official Inquisition business.” He tried to sound steady, in charge. “Wait a minute,” he said finally. _Why am I on trial here?_ “Why are _you_ here?” He put his hands on his hips and attempted to look… firm.

“N… nothing,” Dorian sputtered. “I was just asking Solas… how to… be an… elf?” His voice trailed off. Fitzwilliam tried hard not to laugh. Even Dorian looked confused by his words. Solas actually looked offended.

“Well, good luck with that then,” Fitz said, turning and walking back toward the hall. “Solas, we shall speak later.”

“As you wish, Inquisitor,” Solas said solemnly.

“And Dorian,” he said just as he reached the door. He did not turn to look at the mage. “I’m eager to hear what you’ve learnt about being an elf. Perhaps dinner tonight? In my rooms?”

“Y..yes, Fitz. I’ll be there,” he heard Dorian say with a tone of resignation. He smirked and walked out.

The moment the door closed behind him he heard the rebuking voice of Solas, “How to be an elf?”

“Sorry,” Dorian said. Fitz could almost _hear_ him grimacing. “I panicked.”

“You certainly did,” Solas sighed. “Now, what did you find?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AN: First and foremost: My dearest darling Enchantm3nt. This chapter would look so different without your invaluably suggestions and brainstorming sessions. You are brilliant. *mwah*

And a thank you to everyone who has left Kudos or reviewed. I love hearing from you and I am so delighted that you are following this story!


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 14

                Dorian stood outside Fitzwilliam’s inner chamber door. He had raised his hand to knock more than once, but each time it fell back to his side. _Andraste’s blessed cleavage, why am I so nervous!?_ He felt frustrated with himself. He knew why. He knew all the things that had built up inside, making him anxious about being alone with Fitzwilliam. Part Feelings, part worry, part the dream, part facing him after that incident in the tower. _Did I really say I was learning how to be an elf!?_ And part of the nervousness was because of what they had discovered. Dorian didn’t much care for the information he and Solas had gathered. It wasn’t much, and the accounts they could find had been questionable at best. Even so, it was enough for concern.

He sighed heavily and raised his hand again. He _was_ going to rap his knuckles on the wood this time. Really he was. But before he made contact Fitzwilliam’s voice came from the other side. It was muffled by the door but sill spirited, teasing. “Are you going to stand out there all night, Doe?” The mage rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that curled his lips.

Dorian opened the door and strode through with as much swagger as he could muster. “And deprive you of my charming company? My dear Inquisitor, I think not!” He smirked, walking up to the table Fitzwilliam had set for dinner. It was nothing grand, the same thing they were serving in the hall – some kind of fowl and winter roots. And the table was hardly a thing of beauty. But there _was_ a table, and chairs, candles for a centerpiece, and the wine looked rather fine. Dorian felt like a very lucky man, indeed.

For all the time he had spent taking in the table he’d somehow missed Fitzwilliam. He was, however, noticing now. His eyes tracked from the Inquisitor’s toes, slowly up his legs, torso, and chest, before coming to rest on his face. He looked delicious. He hadn’t shaved, keeping his preferred scattering of stubble, but his hair was clean and in place, his nails had no dirt beneath them. And his _clothes_. Dorian’s breath caught. He was wearing the red formal uniforms they had donned for their stint in the Winter Palace. Dorian crossed the distance between them in a few long strides. He passed the table entirely, nearly forgotten now, and reached for the man. His hand slipped over Fitzwilliam’s hip and around to the small of his back. He pulled him close, pressing their lips together as his other hand moved up to cradle the back of his head. Dorian couldn’t help himself. He _dipped_ the Inquisitor – and was reminded how massive the man was. He looked lean but all that muscle of his added up to a fair sum. Fitzwilliam squeaked in surprise against his lips, and Dorian smiled softly, deepening the kiss. An act which was rewarded by the Inquisitor’s appreciative moan. Dorian held him there until his arms began to shake. Even muscled as he was it wasn’t terribly long, not nearly long enough. Soon he was faced with the regrettable choice of righting the rogue or dropping him, unceremoniously, to the worn wooden floor. He straightened, bringing Fitzwilliam with him. The kiss ended, but Dorian held him there, bodies pressed close, sharing air. Fitzwilliam panted softly. “What was _that_ all about?” He asked, breathlessly.

Dorian smiled at him and rubbed his nose against the Inquisitor’s in a silly, tender, expression of affection. “Sorry, I was overcome,” Dorian said, voice low and rough. “You cut quite the figure in that uniform.” He let go and took a step back, eyeing Fitzwilliam hungrily. “Red.” He said approvingly. “Red, is most certainly _your_ color, Amatus.”

Fitzwilliam flushed under his gaze. That only made Dorian want to do it more. So he continued staring, and bit his lip. Fitzwilliam sputtered, “Dorian!”

Dorian smiled, leering, and lifted his hand. He rotated it at the wrist, gesturing to Fitzwilliam. He wasn’t sure the man would follow, but after a moment Fitzwilliam turned in a slow, reluctant, circle. Dorian let out an indiscrete sound of appreciation for Fitzwilliam’s backside before the Inquisitor finished his revolution. Dorian moved in close again, reaching down and back. He grabbed, taking the fleshy mounds firmly in hand, and pulled Fitz tightly against his front. “I’ve been waiting to get a proper look at your backside in these trousers since we were at Halamshiral,” he whispered. Fitzwilliam’s face was properly red now, not just the subtle pink it always seemed to have, but a deep rose flush. His eyes were lidded, and fixed on Dorian’s mouth. A pink tongue darted out of Fitzwilliam’s mouth, moistening his own lips as he stared. “See something you like, Amatus?” Dorian purred.

Fitzwilliam nodded wordlessly. Dorian smirked, then broke all contact and headed to the table. That was more difficult than he’d anticipated, given how tight his trousers had become during the exchange, but now wasn’t time for that. Fitzwilliam needed to eat, and they had things to discuss. There would be time to appreciate the Inquisitor’s backside _after_. He pulled out a chair and waved a hand, gesturing for Fitzwilliam to sit. A wry smile twisted Fitzwilliam’s lips, amusement going all the way to his eyes where desire still lingered. Still the Inquisitor made his way over, sitting as Dorian pushed the chair close to the table. He offered Fitzwilliam his napkin and poured his wine, before taking his own seat. It was then he noted Fitzwilliam removing the gloves the uniform came with. He wasn’t sure _why_ that made him happy, but it did. There was too much in the way of touching the man as it was. Gloves would have been insufferable.

The meal passed pleasantly. Big scary topics were avoided. They merely ate and enjoyed one another’s company. It felt so… normal. Dorian had forgotten, for a little while, all the things which plagued them daily. Gone was the constant threat of annihilation by a would-be god, the needs of the Inquisition, the Watcher, the Future. There was only having dinner with the man he… wanted to be with. Dorian smiled a little as the thought crossed his mind. It wasn’t complete honesty but it wasn’t total denial either. That felt like progress.

They finished eating. Dorian cleared the table, then Fitzwilliam helped him move it to the far left wall. That accomplished, the two moved back to the pelt near the fire. Fitzwilliam moved closer, touching Dorian gently, hands wandering across the front of his shirt. “So,” he said tenderly, “as much as I’d like to pick up where we left off…” his words trailed, hanging unfinished.

Dorian sighed. “Yes, I suppose we do have actual pressing matters to discuss…”

It was Fitzwilliam who spoke at last, tone changed to business, “So, what have you learnt of being an elf?” Dorian stared at him. His face was really quite serious and Dorian thought the Inquisitor might be a far better liar and thespian than anyone realized.

Dorian, had no such intentions – he laughed heartily and led his lover to the couch. They sat. “Obviously,” Dorian began, “I am not half as clever as I pretend to be. What a terrible lie.”

Fitzwilliam grinned at him. “Quite.” He chuckled gently. “Especially given that you and Solas conferring on a project or some aspect of magical theory wouldn’t have given anyone a moment’s pause. I can think of a dozen things you might have said.”

Dorian shrugged. “What can I say, I was surprised to see you, after you snuck out of Skyhold.” He tried to keep his features even, but he knew he was smirking slightly.

“Uuuuugh,” Fitzwilliam groaned, throwing his head back. “You saw me too? I thought I had been so careful.”

Dorian chuckled. “I didn’t see you,” Dorian replied. He stood and returned to the wine, filling the cups and bringing them back. “I talked to Cole.” He handed Fitzwilliam the cup. The man blinked up at him.

“Ah, well that assuages my pride some,” he said. “Learning to be a spy?”

Dorian sat, sipping. “Not especially.”

“Oh,” Fitzwilliam said casually, “I thought perhaps that had been what you and Bull have been doing together.”

Dorian sputtered into his glass. He managed to keep all the wine in it, but it was a ghastly display all the same. To his credit Fitzwilliam did not so much as snigger at him. When he had composed himself he managed a thin, “How did you know about that?”

“Talked to Cole,” Fitzwilliam said with a knowing smile.

“Marvelous,” Dorian sighed. “Well, choose which thing you’d like me to discuss then. I’m afraid I can’t cover it _all_ tonight.”

Fitzwilliam’s mouth turned up at one corner. “Alas, such a pity. Your time in elf education, then.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “We didn’t find a great deal, I’m afraid. There’s theory galore, and some old mythology, but what we’ve gathered thus far? Well, right now I have our suspects narrowed down to anyone from ‘random mage who doesn’t know he’s dreaming’ to ‘old elven god’. Take your pick.”

Fitzwilliam frowned. “That,” he said, “is not promising.”

“Not yet,” Dorian agreed. “We’ve thinned the herd _some_. The random mage theory is unlikely. Most people who stumble into the fade are quickly disposed of,” his mouth twisted with distaste. “The fade is not a kind place to visitors. Besides that, the observer followed us from dream to dream. Someone who had wandered in wouldn’t have had that kind of control.” Dorian sipped his wine to banish the bad taste this was bringing. The liquid was deep red and fruity, delightful, but an odd compliment to the conversation. Something bitter would have been more appropriate.

“Is there _any_ support for it being a lost sleeper?” Fitzwilliam asked hopefully. Dorian could hear it there and he understood why. Maker knew they had enough to deal with. A lost sleeper wouldn’t be out to get them. That _would_ make a nice change.

“It would have to be someone with a deep connection to _both_ of us for them to end up in our dreams. Both of us on the same night? I’m not saying it’s impossible, Fitz,” Dorian sighed rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “But it’s bloody unlikely. That sort of thing takes planning, purpose.”

Fitzwilliam nodded silently and raised his glass to his lips. “And there’s the fact that Cole mentioned the observer was actually crafting the dreams, a random wanderer wouldn’t be able to do that, would they?”

Dorian shook his head. “Not consciously, at least. I don’t have proof, but I believe we were shown the things we were to a specific purpose.”

Fitz smiled at him. “Any theories as to said purpose?”

Dorian’s smile was sad. “Afraid not, Amatus.” The Inquisitor shrugged. Dorian let the silence hand in the air between them. He wasn’t sure how the next thing he had to say would be received. “Solas and I,” he said finally, “have decided this might have to come down to some… practical experimentation.” He finished delicately, waiting to see Fitzwilliam’s reaction.

“Like you were doing with Alexius?” Fitzwilliam asked, his lips pulled downward at the corners. Dorian could hear the apprehension.

Dorian nodded. “Something similar, yes.”

“But… in the fade,” Fitzwilliam continued warily. Dorian nodded again. “That sounds dangerous, Dorian.”

“Oh,” he said emphatically, “it is. As is taking on an Archdemon, all alone, and stopping it with an avalanche. But we make the choices we must.” He looked at Fitzwilliam properly and saw the reprimanding look he’d expected. “We will be cautious, Amatus,” he assured, grasping Fitzwilliam’s hand and squeezing lightly. “You have my word.”

The concern did not completely vanish from Fitzwilliam’s face, but he did manage a small smile. “You have a point,” he said softly.

“If Soals and I are going to delve into this more meaningfully,” Dorian continued. “We’re going to need to requisition some rarer texts.”

Fitzwilliam nodded. “If we have resources to spare, I’ll send them your way.”

Dorian finished his wine and stood. He held out his hand for Fitzwilliam’s cup. The man grinned up at him, downed the remainder, and passed it over. Dorian walked to the table, placed the glasses, and then returned and offered Fitzwilliam his hand. The Inquisitor took it. The mage pulled, coaxingly, and Fitzwilliam followed. He led him to the center of the carpet and rested his hand on the Inquisitor’s hip. Framed up, they began to dance. “It’s a shame there’s no music,” Dorian said in a hushed voice, “but I felt very strongly that another dance was in order.”

Fitzwilliam beamed. “You’re quite good at keeping a beat,” he quipped.

“I thank you.” They danced in silenced. “You really do look divine in this color,” Dorian said after a while. “You should wear it more often.”

“I’ve always thought you looked quite fetching in blue,” Fitzwilliam replied. “I recall an armor you wore once. Something we’d grabbed hastily and shoved you into before we’d been able to make you a proper set. It was ill-fitting, but the blue…”

Dorian kissed him then. He couldn’t help it. It was Fitzwilliam telling him of a long ago memory, when they’d only just met. That he still remembered it was deeply touching. Dorian could think of no way to communicate the way it made him feel. That he had been worth note even then. So he kissed him. The dance halted. Dorian poured everything he could into the kiss. It was long and slow and sweet. It deepened and lessened like a wave. Pulling to and fro, teasing one moment and threatening to pull them away with the force of it the next.

“Perhaps you should undress,” Dorian said huskily when they parted.

“So forward!” Fitzwilliam joked.

“It’s just, I am quite fond of this suit,” Dorian explained. “And if it is not off soon, I may damage it in my haste.” His hand caressed across the smooth, rich fabric, feeling the definition of Fitzwilliam’s arms beneath it. “And that would be a pity.”  

“As you wish,” Fitzwilliam said, smiling. He took a step back and began to disrobe. First went the golden belt. Fitzwilliam unbuckled it, pulling the tail slowly through, then laid it across the arm of the couch. Dorian stood, arms folded, watching appraisingly. It seemed the Inquisitor was feeling mischievous. Next went the sash. He untied the royal-blue silk and unwrapped it from around his waist. He let it drop and it hung limply down his back. Fitzwilliam grabbed the length hanging down his chest and pulled, hand over hand, drawing the silk through the golden shoulder strap which held it, so dashingly, in place. That done, he folded it into quarters and lay it next to the belt.

“Taking your time, aren’t you?” Dorian said with a wry grin.

Fitzwilliam affected a look of innocence and shrugged even as his hand went to unbutton the high collar of the jacket. “I’m just being careful. You’re quite fond of this uniform, you know.” He sounded so… _playful._ Light and happy. It made Dorian’s heart glad to see him like this. The Inquisitor fully gone, put aside as the suit would be. He didn’t feel the need to be that person with Dorian. He felt humbled. His vision blurred a bit and he realized tears were welling up. Thankfully, Fitzwilliam was distracted, unbuttoning as he was. He reigned his emotions in.

Clearly Dorian had not been playing close enough attention. It wasn’t until now, halfway done, he realized there was nothing under that jacket. He’d never known Fitzwilliam to dress in any way that was less than fully proper, but it was becoming clear the man was not wearing an undershirt. The last button popped open and Fitzwilliam pulled the lapels, revealing the light bronze skin beneath. Dorian bit his lip appreciatively. The soft light of fires and candles complimented his skin so well.  The garment was shrugged off Fitzwilliam’s shoulders. He folded it carefully, lining up seams and sleeves, then rested it delicately beside the other items.

The Inquisitor placed his hands upon his hips and cocked his head to the side. Dorian gazed intently at him, eyeing him up and down hungrily. The mage waved a hand, indicating he was ready for the man to continue but Fitzwilliam just stood, smirking. “You _are_ feeling frisky,” Dorian growled. In return the shirtless man before him shrugged. “Tease,” Dorian growled dangerously. He saw Fitzwilliam shiver slightly. “If you aren’t going to finish, I’ll have to do it myself.”

The Inquisitor looked like he was considering that but eventually kicked off his boots and moved his hands from his hips to the laces at the front of his trousers. Fingers moved languidly, knowingly pulling out the knot and slipping the silk from its eyelets. Without the lacing to hold them the trousers glided down the tawny, well-defined legs to pool on the floor at his feet. It had happened so fast. Dorian gasped, eyes going wide. Under those luxurious red trousers Dorian had been expecting a set of silky smallclothes. Dyed the same color as his suit, as Fitzwilliam’s always seemed to be – being the Inquisitor _did_ have its perks.  But what he found instead was nothing. No smallclothes at all. Not a scrap. Just a well-kept patch of hair and Fitzwilliam’s half-hard cock.

Dorian groaned audibly, dropped his arms and moved forward. “If you want to put the trousers aside,” he said warningly, “best do it now.” The way Fitzwilliam’s eyes widened and how he scrambled to put the clothing on the sofa was very satisfying. By the time he got there Fitz had just started to turn back to him. Dorian pulled him close, rocking his hips and eliciting the most delicious sound. He opted not to capture Fitzwilliam’s lips, lowering his head to a spot on his neck instead. He kissed it sloppily, suckled, and then opened his mouth wide and bit. It wasn’t _hard_ but it wasn’t gentle either. Fitzwilliam went from sighing, to moaning, to crying out in pleasure, trying to press himself ever closer to the mage.

“Maker, Dorian,” he panted, hands pulling frantically at the fabric between them. “Why are you still wearing this?”

Dorian smirked against the soft skin of Fitzwilliam’s neck. “I was quite distracted, Amatus,” he said breathily.

Regretfully, Dorian moved away. He disrobed with efficiency, not wanting to wait any longer. He needed to touch Fitzwilliam. _Needed._ He didn’t know how he had let it get this far, but he was well gone now. It felt as if it had been ages since they had been alone, free to indulge and explore. He knew he felt better when he could touch the man, feel his warmth. It drove that sinister voice from his mind, if only for a short time.

The mage tossed his clothing onto the couch in a pile. Well, if _that_ wasn’t just an accurate picture of the two of them. Fitzwilliam’s clothes lined up and folded, proper, all together – just like him and Dorian’s a heap on the couch. Dazzling and well-made, but crumpled.

He felt Fitzwilliam’s hand, warm and tingling, touch his finger and take his hand. “Something on your mind, Dorian?” He asked softly. Dorian looked up. Fitzwilliam’s brow was furrowed, he looked genuinely concerned. Dorian smiled softly and shook his head.

“No,” he said softly. Fitzwilliam was touching him. Everything was fine. “Come here,” he whispered, pulling the Inquisitor close, flesh meeting flesh at last. He did kiss him this time, deeply, releasing the pent up desire and affection of the days they had missed together. Dorian pulled back again, letting his lips wander the expanses of flesh now left open to him, across Fitzwilliam’s neck, shoulders, chest. The man’s head rolled back in pleasure. “I watch you, you know,” Dorian said between kisses. His hands caressed down Fitzwilliam’s back to his hips. “You run all over this place, doing for others.” His fingers scratched lightly across a hipbone, lips leaving shy pecks across his upper chest. He felt the flesh shudder under his touch, felt Fitzwilliam’s length, fully hard, press demandingly against him. “They should come to you. Feed you grapes,” he said rakishly.

Fitzwilliam sighed deeply. His hands gripped Dorian’s shoulders firmly. “Well,” he managed voice thick with want, “I wouldn’t say no.”

Dorian chuckled softly, pulling back to look at him. “Yes you would,” he said. “You’d go mad with boredom.”

Fitzwilliam considered that then nodded, “You’re probably right,” he said at last. “Unless you were there to keep me entertained.”

Dorian jumped in surprise as Fitzwilliam’s hand closed in a fist around his cock. “As you wish, your worship,” he managed with a deep moan. He felt something odd, then, a tingle where Fitzwilliam gripped him, almost like a vibration. He gasped, hips thrusting forward involuntarily. _What was that?_ Fitzwilliam gave no indication that he noticed anything, and began moving his hand up and down Dorian’s length, the pace achingly slow. He bit his lips, his eyes squeezed shut, his body moved of its own volition.

“I knew this bloody mark was good for something,” Fitzwilliam said wickedly as he redoubled his efforts.

Dorian was coming apart at the seams. This must have painted quite the picture: the two of them, standing naked on a pelt before the hearth, Dorian thrusting wildly into the Inquisitor’s fist. “Venhedis,” Dorian sighed and pressed his forehead to Fitzwilliam’s shoulder. “Fitz if you keep this up we’ll never make it to the bed.” He heard a small, amused, huff of air escape Fitzwilliam and then the tingling amplified.

Dorian had been right in his prediction. The added stimulation was too much and he felt himself tipping over the edge. His body went ridged, his knees wobbled, his cock shuddered in Fitzwilliam’s hand and he let go, spilling himself. The tingling didn’t stop, and Dorian found himself panting and bucking for far longer than he would have anticipated. Eventually he found pride was beyond him. “Fitz,” he pled between gasping breaths, “oh Fitz please. Please stop.” It was too much, his brain was over-loaded with sensation. Begging was an acceptable option.  

To his credit Fitzwilliam _did_ stop. He pulled away entirely, and crossed the room, leaving Dorian gripping the couch for support his legs could not supply. He returned swiftly with a towel, and wiped tenderly at the mess Dorian had made of himself. “You’re a wicked man,” Dorian said when he’d gathered his senses. “When did you learn to do that?”

Fitzwilliam blushed. Oh, it was a glorious sight, naked as the man was. Dorian could see his skin flush from chest to face. “Recently,” was his reply. He dropped the towel to the floor. “Well, just now, really…”

Dorian’s eyes went wide with surprise. “You didn’t know?” He asked.

Fitzwilliam shook his head. “I’ve just noticed that you like it when I touch you with the mark. You comment on how it’s warm, and sometimes I can feel the humming in my hand. Seemed worth exploring.”

“You’re not a mage,” Dorian reminded him. “I’ve been experimenting with magic in the bedroom for ages.” Dorian leered at him. “You realize you’ve started something, don’t you?” Fitzwilliam nodded silently. “Don’t worry,” he assured, “I’ll go easy on you… _tonight_.” He sat on the pelt on the floor and gestured for Fitzwilliam to do the same. He sat, but he also looked wary. Dorian moved in, kissing him tenderly, doing his best to reassure without words. His hand caressed lovingly, then persuaded the Inquisitor to lay on his back.

Dorian was tender, gentle, affectionate. Every kiss and touch he used to make Fitzwilliam feel safe and cared for. Tomorrow there would be strategy meetings, and planning, and things to keep them apart. But for now they were here, pressed flesh to flesh, and he could show him all the things he could not say. Soon the man was clay in his hands. Dorian summoned a weak spark to his hand as it passed across the side of Fitzwilliam’s buttock, anticipating a jump or a squeak from the man.

Fitzwilliam moaned loudly. “Yes,” he gasped.

Dorian’s eyebrows shot up in shock. He summoned another spark, stronger this time, and released it over Fitzwilliam’s hip.

“Maker,” Fitzwilliam cried out, his hips pressed up against the mage’s thigh. Dorian could feel the man’s length _throbbing_ against him.

“Do… do you like this?” Dorian asked. This was not the sort of things to make assumptions about.

Fitzwilliam nodded vigorously, but did not open his eyes.

“Promise me you will tell me if something I do is too much,” Dorian said, his voice was firm. Fitzwilliam merely nodded in reply. “Not good enough. Open your eyes, look at me, and promise. I won’t have any less.” Fitzwilliam opened his eyes and met the mage’s gaze. It was reluctant, he looked almost embarrassed.

“I promise I will tell you,” he said. His voice was nearly raw with desire.

Dorian nodded, and returned to his actions. Playing with intensity and pulse as his hands wandered Fitzwilliam’s flesh, he kissed, and caressed, and rocked his hips against Fitzwilliam’s thigh. He had absolutely no idea how long they had been writhing on the floor like that when Dorian reached his limit. He pulled away, standing, and Fitzwilliam moved to follow. He held out a hand. “No,” he said firmly. “You stay.” Fitzwilliam reclined slowly.

Dorian went to the chest beside Fitzwilliam’s bed and removed a small vial before returning to the place where his lover lay in wait. He gazed down at Fitzwilliam, eyes hungry. “I can never decide how I want to take you,” he said kneeling. “Have you a preference?” Fitzwilliam shook his head gently. “On your knees then,” he said at last. Fitzwilliam complied, moving as commanded. As Dorian drizzled oil on his cock he wondered how far he could take this. It seemed that tonight the Inquisitor intended to leave himself to Dorian’s capable hands.

Fitzwilliam had assumed the position they favored – ass up, shoulders down. It was easier than trying to hold one’s self up on all fours. “No,” he said, stroking himself as he looked at the man, tan and soft and wanting below him. “On your hands. Don’t fall, or I shall stop.”

Fitzwilliam moved slowly, but willingly. Dorian did not waste time. He reached out and slipped his thumb between the soft mounds of Fitzwilliam’s ass. Pressing slowly and steadily he watched the digit disappear inside. Fitzwilliam moaned, his hips moving back to meet the touch.

Dorian stopped. “No,” he said. “Don’t move until I tell you to.” Fitzwilliam said nothing, and Dorian resumed his efforts. He pumped his thumb slowly, stroking with every back swipe. Long minutes passed, he felt Fitzwilliam trembling. If their positions had been reversed Dorian would have been pushing back hard, swearing and cursing his torturer. But Fitzwilliam did as he was told. He knelt there, prone, still, waiting for instruction.

Dorian placed his free hand on Fitzwilliam’s ass, stroking it softly. Then, while his thumb moved inside, coaxing, he drew electricity to his fingertips and pressed them firmly into the soft flesh of Fitzwilliam’s backside. The man shuddered, his skin rippling, and he cried out softly, but his arms did not give and his hips did not rock.

“I’m impressed,” Dorian said, surprised by how gruff his voice sounded.

Fitzwilliam said nothing. The only sound from him came in the form of soft noises of pleasure, and cries of surprise as Dorian sustained the flow of electricity. He was cautious to never lose control and he never used too much energy. He kept it light, and unpredictable, continuing until Fitzwilliam was shaking all over – his body overwhelmed by sensation, his mind flooded with adrenaline and endorphins. Dorian thought he wanted nothing more than to take him but he was mistaken. There was one thing he wanted more than that – he wanted to hear Fitzwilliam’s sweet voice.

“Are you ready,” Dorian asked. His voice was low, rough, and heavy with need.

“Yes,” came Fitzwilliam’s reply. It was heady, graveled.

Dorian positioned himself at Fitzwilliam’s entrance. He had had every intention of easing himself in but once he felt the head of his cock wrapped in the delicious heat and closeness of Fitzwilliam savoring the moment was off the table. He gripped the man’s hips and pushed harder until he was fully seated in him. A guttural, primal sensation took him over, he made noises he would not be able to duplicate later as he thrust rapidly, his nails bit into the delicate skin under them. He knew what was happening, but he couldn’t stop.

“Doe,” he heard Fitzwilliam calling out to him in between moans and grunts. “Doe,” he said again. “Please…” it came out soft, almost keening, and Dorian knew what he wanted. He wrapped his hands around Fitzwilliam’s waist, pressing firmly against his stomach. The familiar tingle of static made its way up his arms moving toward his fingers. He let it out delicately in slow pulses and felt Fitzwilliam’s rhythm changing to match it. His hips rocked, his whole body shook as the mage continued thrusting inside him.

Dorian was close to losing control and he couldn’t do that. Not until Fitzwilliam had found his pleasure and he could turn off the magic in his hands. If he let go before that he might hurt his lover, seriously, and he was determined that would never be the case. Still, he was finding it quite difficult to reign himself in.

“Touch yourself,” Dorian whispered. Fitzwilliam, it seemed, needed no convincing. Dorian felt Fitzwilliam’s weight shifting to one arm as the other moved back. Dorian could see his elbow moving as his fist pumped, stroking himself as Dorian moved inside of him and sent little licks of electricity skittering across his tan skin.

It didn’t take long.

“Doe, Doe, I’m…” he trailed off, groaning, shaking, and Dorian let go a long steady pulse of the magic Fitzwilliam had been enjoying. His entire body spasmed. Fitzwilliam cried out wordless, primal sounds, screams of pleasure filled the room. Dorian tried to hold back but the way Fitzwilliam writhed, the way his insides clenched, the pure pleasure he was feeling and seeing and hearing, it was too much.

His orgasm came on him swiftly and he was spilling himself inside the man below him, letting lose a great warm flood. He uttered a sound that was more roar than scream. His hands gripped so tightly that Fitzwilliam would have small finger-tip bruises decorating his hips for days. Electricity crackled in the air.

Fitzwilliam, no longer able to hold himself up, collapsed, bringing the mage with him. They tumbled to the floor in a heap. They said nothing. They shuddered together. Dorian, wrapped around Fitzwilliam as he was, was perfectly content to stay as they were. His hands traveled over the soft warm skin of the Inquisitor’s body delicately for long minutes.

Eventually, and with great effort, he pulled away and retrieved the towel. He cleaned himself then returned the favor Fitzwilliam had paid earlier. When that was done, he attempted to clean the pelt. It was a lost cause, of course, but he tried. That done, he returned to Fitzwilliam, sitting down to face him as the man lay in blissful shock. Dorian began a careful inspection for any harm he may have done. Fitzwilliam’s eyes were glassy and unfocused but his breathing was regular, his heart beat had slowed from its frantic pounding to a more relaxed pace, and there were no marks. Dorian searched especially vigilantly for the tell-tale crooked pink marks of lightning. He didn’t relax until he had assured himself there were none.

When he stopped his inspection Fitzwilliam was looking at him, smiling. Dorian smiled back. “I needed that,” the man confessed in a small voice. He looked… shy about it.

Dorian lay down beside him, his fingers stroking the stubble across Fitzwilliam’s jaw languidly in a sweet gesture of affection. “Can I ask?” Dorian inquired.

“Ask what?” Fitzwilliam’s voice sounded dreamy.

“You’re not always like this, but sometimes I feel that you want…” Dorian said delicately. Fitzwilliam gave him an encouraging look. “That you want me to take over? When we’re together I mean. As if you’re waiting for me to tell you what to do.”

Fitzwilliam looked away sheepishly. “I…” he began. Dorian continued his soft touches, allowing his hands to wander, and hopped it was reassuring. There wasn’t much the man could say that would change his good opinion of him. “Being the Inquisitor,” Fitzwilliam said slowly, he still did not meet Dorian’s gaze, “all day, every day, I am asked to make every little decision. It is very liberating to give that control up for a while. To someone I trust.” His voice was so low it was hard to hear toward the end.

Dorian grabbed Fitzwilliam’s chin between his fingers and coaxed his head until their eyes met. He smiled fondly, then leaned in, dropping a tender kiss on the man’s waiting lips. He felt his heart flutter. It was very humbling to hear something like that. It was a great responsibility, and Dorian intended to be worthy of it. When the kiss ended Fitzwilliam was smiling again. Dorian pulled him against his chest as he rolled onto his back. One arm wrapped about Fitzwilliam, the other, he folded back and tucked under his head as he stared at the ceiling.

“Can _I_ ask?” Fitzwilliam said softly.

“Ask away, Amatus,” Dorian chuckled.

“Why do you only wear one sleeve?”

“What?” Dorian asked incredulously. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but that wasn’t it.

“All your outfits, one sleeve. All your armor, one sleeve. Why? Do you think you’re going to start some sort of trend?” He was being impish, Dorian knew, but he felt the heat rise to his cheeks all the same.

“The answer,” he said slowly, “is mildly embarrassing.”

He felt Fitzwilliam shift as he pulled back and moved up slightly to look at the mage. “Dorian,” he said seriously, “I’m not going to taunt you.”

Dorian nodded. He’d known that, but uncomfortable topics were still uncomfortable. He breathed deeply. Fitzwilliam, pressed to his chest as he was, rose and fell with the exaggerated action. “You’ll notice, when we fight, I tend to cast from the left, yes?” Fitzwilliam nodded. “Well, when I was younger I had a bad habit of setting my cuffs ablaze.” The Inquisitor grinned, but said nothing. “Yes, very amusing, I know. Regardless, I got so used to having one sleeve rolled up that I decided to just incorporate it into my tailoring. The forearm piece is leather, good for armor, but also significantly less flammable than the rest of my outfit.”

Fitzwilliam was just leaning there, smirking. Dorian rolled his eyes. “Yes?”

Fitzwilliam shook his head softly still smiling. “I…” he began. He shook his head again. “Nothing. You are amazing and powerful and adorable and I enjoy learning about you.”

“Adorable!?” Dorian gasped with mock affront. “I am a powerful and deadly mage!”

Fitzwilliam lowered his head back to Dorian’s chest. The mage found his fingers in the man’s hair, touching gently, running through it, before he’d even thought of the action. “Yes you are,” he heard Fitzwilliam mumble against his chest. “But you’re _my_ powerful and deadly mage.”

Dorian closed his eyes and smiled. That felt good. Better than he wanted to admit. He had spent all these years pretending he didn’t care. Acting like he enjoyed being a pariah. But in this moment, even if only _just_ for this moment, he could admit – it was nice to belong.

VVV

Solas blinked. The green light of the fade was always jarring. Getting here had been easy, the following of an old remembered trail, it was the falling asleep which had been difficult. He breathed deeply and reached out with his thoughts, searching for some kind of indication that things were not as they should be. He would have to act quickly, even this small effort of will would attract notice and with the veil weakening thanks to Coryphaeus’s ambitions the demons would be eager. His consciousness stretched out, passing over the confusing windings and whisperings of which the fade was composed. _Nothing. Nothing. Nothing._ Long moments passed revealing naught. Solas was becoming frustrated. In the fade moments could represent hours. He could be near to waking and never know. If he had to go back empty-handed he would be cross indeed. He continued. _Nothing. Nothing. Nothing._ Finally – _There!_ It was discrete, small, most would not even have noticed. He honed in on it and shifted. The fade blurred past him in a swirl of lime fog until he came to rest at the origin of the wrongness.

Here, in the fade, it looked like a magnificent manor. Huge and towering, dragon bone and gold, jewels worked _into_ the masonry. But Solas knew it for what it was – a prison. There were all manner of dangerous things in the fade, and the most dangerous were contained within these glistening walls. A fool who had stumbled upon it would enter and find his mind broken. If he ever woke it would not be to the man he was. He might even wake with something new in his body. Solas knew, however, it was not the prison that had drawn him here. The prison _belonged._ Somewhere, there was something out of step.

He began to circle the perimeter, reaching out with his senses, feeling the unique hum of the energy beyond the vale. To his knowledge he was one of the few left free who could still do such a thing. His brethren had been killed or taken long ago. Only his disguises kept him free. One more reason to find the source and flee as soon as possible. He felt it as he got closer. A sick twisting feeling in his gut. As if smelling something that had gone off. An instinctual repulsion. The elf followed it.

He rounded the corner of the manor into a small back garden. This area was pristine, just as the front had been. Close clipped lawn, Paragon’s Luster walk, well-pruned Crystal Grace, a fountain. The feeling had led him here, but everything was in order. Solas took a step forward and his foot landed as if in sand. The path was composed of stone slabs, it should have been firm. He looked down. His foot had crumbled the stone, sinking in slightly. He stepped on the opposite side of the slab, farthest from the wall of the manor – it remained firm. _Curious._ He knelt examining the powdery section again. He touched it with his fingers, rubbed them together. It was grainy like limestone. The grass touching that section had gone brown, dead. He followed it toward the wall then lifted a foot, toeing where the dead grass touched the side of the manor, the prison. Where the delicate leather of his boot touched the wall, sand flaked off.  

Solas grimaced, kneeling. _So the glass prison is shattering at last._ It was only a matter of time, and it would be a while before anyone could be wholly free, but someone had escaped to some degree. At least enough to influence events in the fade. If they could do that their consciousness must be able to wander. It was Coryphaeus’s work, he was sure of it. The madman had been siphoning the fade’s power, weakening the veil. Solas cursed, “ _Fenedhis_.” If it had affected the glass prison of _all_ places in the fade, then the elf had deeply misunderstood the _true_ influence Coryphaeus was having. He breathed deeply, calming himself. Emotional distress would only garner him more attention. _I knew this day would come_ , he reminded himself. Still this was evidence enough. Enough to narrow the suspects from half of Thedas to a mere handful. Enough to delve deeper. Enough to prepare.

Solas straightened and readied to shift back to his own dream. As the manor and its garden diminished he spotted a raven perching in an elm tree, watching him. He scowled at it as his presence melted away. The raven’s screech followed him into the waking world, echoing in his ears long after the fade had been left behind.

AN: Okay, now this is the longest chapter yet! So I hope you will forgive the wait. I’ve also been ill for several days. Nothing serious, but it /has/ zapped all my brain power! As always I’d like to say thanks to everyone who has commented or left kudos. You’re marvelous. Keep it up, don’t be shy. <3


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 15

_Well, this is getting terrifying,_ Fitzwilliam thought grimly as he stalked the hall. He’d just left the war room. They were ready. Trebuchets and armies and strategies. It was as good as it was going to get if they were going to make a move. They had a chance to end this now. To take the fight to Coryphaeus at his stronghold at Adamant and beat him back before he could regroup. Fitzwilliam was eager to do that, to stop the chaos and terror and loss of life this was causing, but it also meant danger. More danger than the fledgling Inquisition had ever faced at once. It was with that thought, he completed his journey, lifted the latch, and walked into the mage’s rooms.

Dorian turned abruptly, clearly startled. _Oops_. “Sorry,” Fitzwilliam said closing the door. “I should have knocked, or announced myself.”

Dorian smiled and sauntered over. _Andraste, does the man ever just walk. Look at his hips._ “You have terrible manners,” he said teasingly before pulling the Inquisitor close and kissing him. It didn’t last as long as he would have liked. Not _half_ as long. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Fitzwilliam looked at Dorian intently. Dorian’s face changed. The easy contentment melted away, concern took its place. Fitzwilliam knew it was due to his own dour expression. He didn’t want to do this. “We’re ready,” he said. His voice sounded steady to his ears. That was good. Firm voice, hard face. That would hide the fear he was feeling. “We’re taking the fight to Coryphaeus. We’re leaving for Adamant. Now.”

Dorian’s eyes went wide but he set his jaw and nodded. “I’ll gather my things,” he said, turning to do just that.

Fitzwilliam shook his head. He reached out and grasped the mage by his elbow wheeling him back. “Dorian,” he began slowly. “I think you should stay.”

Dorian wrenched his arm away and took a step back. Disbelief coated his features but it soon vanished, replaced by anger. Fitzwilliam could feel the air near them get slightly warmer. “Vishante kaffas,” he swore. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dorian,” Fitzwilliam began softly. He tried to be gentle, to coax him to accepting the idea. “I know you want to be there, but…”

Dorian sliced through the air with his arm cutting the Inquisitor off. “ _But_ nothing!” He shouted. “I may not be good for much in the world of high society, but I can burn nasty things to a crisp. That? That I’m quite good at. You can’t possibly tell me you’re willing to bring me to the Orlesian Court but _not_ to a scrapping, scrabbling, desperate fight against a want-to-be god!”

Fitzwilliam flinched. “I deserve that,” he said. He rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe he was picking up Dorian’s nervous habits now.

Some of the fury left Dorian’s features. The air didn’t feel quite so charged. That worried Fitzwilliam even more. The temper he could deal with. It was the cold anger that really frightened him. “We don’t have time for this,” Dorian said with a sigh. He turned again, packing a sack. “So let’s skip the dramatics. Just… tell me why.”

Fitzwilliam tried to make the words come, but there was only dread. He couldn’t have lied even though he wanted to. If it kept _him_ safe… he would tell the lies. But they would not ocme. “Even if we win this,” he said softly. He looked to the fire, to the wall, to a sad hanging. Anywhere. He just couldn’t look at Dorian. “Some of us aren’t coming home.” He didn’t say what he was thinking. Didn’t say ‘you’. But they both understood, in that moment.

Dorian approached and put a hand on Fitzwilliam’s shoulder. He couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. “I know that’s hard for you, Fitz,” he said softly. “I know it’s hard even sending soldiers out knowing that, not to mention… friends.” His voice gained a little of its usual levity, “And trust me, I have no interest in going home in an urn. But,” Dorian tucked his fingers under his chin and gently his gaze to him, “for me there’s only two ways this goes. I go with you, or I go with you.” His words were tender, but rang with convition. He smiled softly.

Fitzwilliam shook his head again. He could feel the emotion welling up, threatening to break through. He remembered the dream. Sending the amulet home to Magister Pavus. “Dorian I haven’t the strength…” he managed faintly.

“Let me tell you about some of the ways this could go down.” Dorian replied. He was concise, almost businesslike. “We’ll just knock all the unknowns out right here, and then be on our way.” He left Fitzwilliam to stand where he was and began pacing. “One,” he counted off on his hand. “I stay here. I chew my nails, pace a trench in the floor, and am generally miserable until we get word. Which, adding in travel time, and accounting for the weather in the mountain pass, could be months. Then you come home and I am relieved. Until you tell me what horrors you undoubtedly faced and I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt for not being there for you. A rift is begun and Maker knows if we will ever repair it. Two – same scenario except at the end you _don’t_ come home and I drown myself in drink until someone pulls me out. If I’m lucky. If not, I might succeed in the drowning.”

 _That’s absurd. Surely he wouldn’t do those things. I could never live with myself…_ But hadn’t he done just that in the dream? Fitzwilliam tried to interrupt but the look Dorian shot him was… well, scary. He closed his mouth.

“Three,” the mage continued, holding up his first two fingers and his thumb. “I come with you, lend you my support – my _literal_ fire power, and we conquer this challenge together, as we were meant to do. We both come home and are here to face whatever horrors linger. Four,” he tucked his thumb away and waved all four fingers in the Inquisitor’s face. “We both go, and I don’t make it back. Clearly this is the one you think is inevitable. The answer to this one is simple: I don’t agree.”

It was hard to argue with the mage. So Fitzwilliam swallowed his pride and made a choice. He would hurt Dorian now, to save his life. It was the only thing he knew would end this. “I can’t fight Coryphaeus and be worrying about keeping you alive too, Dorian.”

Dorian crossed the space between them faster than Fitzwilliam would have thought possible. His arm reared back. Dorian’s hands weren’t rough, but they were _strong._ It connected across the Inquisitor’s cheek. “How _dare_ you!” It hadn’t hurt, really, not in the grand scheme of injury. It was shocking more than anything. And maybe it stung a bit. Fitzwilliam realized Dorian’s intent hadn’t been to hurt him. Had the mage intended that he would have summoned a ball of fire, a bolt of electricity, made the very earth shudder under their feet. No, the blow had been a message, as clear as any word. “If there is one place I can care for myself it is in _battle_ , Amatus. And I _know_ you didn’t mean that. You said something hurtful, _on purpose_ , out of _fear_ , Fitzwilliam. Maker.” Dorian rubbed the back of his neck, spinning in a slow circle. Finally, he addressed him again. “We don’t have time for this,” he growled. He grabbed the strap of his bag in one hand and slung it over his shoulder. Then he took up his staff. “I’m going. You have the whole trip to come to terms with that.”

Dorian Pavus, mage extraordinaire, stormed out of the room. Fitzwilliam stared at the place he had been and rubbed his cheek. It had gone warm, blood rushing to the point of impact. He sighed heavily, “this is going to be an awkward journey.”

He turned, leaving behind the mage’s familiar room, a safe haven, to follow Dorian into the Void itself.

VVV AFTER THE BATTLE IN THE CAMP

 

 

Dorian was falling, spinning wildly. The world was a blur. Stone falling, a dragon. He saw Fitzwilliam again and again. He focused on him. The terror was overwhelming. Lime green appeared in the pattern as he rotated downward. Below him a rend opened in the world. A jagged scar of brilliant green.

…

He was talking casually, trying to ease the panic he could see in his Inquisitor’s eyes. “The first time I found myself in the fade it looked like a lovely castle full of gold and silks. I met a marvelous desire demon, as I recall. We chatted and ate grapes before he attempted to possess me. Perhaps the difference is that we’re here physically – this is no one’s dream.”

…

Startling green light. He was elsewhere, walking the fade.

A voice out of the sky, “Greetings Dorian, it is Dorian isn't it? For a moment I mistook you for your father.”

He felt the shame of the words like an accusation. It made him ache. It was too familiar in ways that cut and caught. But he had defenses for this. Airs of indifference he could wear like so many silk robes. “Rather uncalled for,” he cuffed. But he knew the demon wasn’t fooled by the sinister way it laughed at him.

…

Another flash of green, blinding.

He looked down at a tombstone. _His_ tombstone. The only evidence that he had ever existed. He knew as he looked at it. No family, no children, no legacy. Just a cold slab of stone. His name was scrawled across the top, and below it a single word in conjoined lettering: _Temptation_. It made him shiver with real horror. It was not the fleeting panic most people took fear to be. This was something that dug into your gut, burrowed, changed you. He hadn’t felt like this since he’d completed his training as a mage. In those day temptation had been a ruling force. After, it had merely become something with which he lived. Moderation. Control. But seeing it there shook him to his core. And he _knew_. Temptation. That would be his failing.

Then he was falling again.

VVV

Dorian awoke in his tent with a start. His heart pounded. His eyes darted around the dark tent. The dream, the memories, still echoed in his eyes and ears. _The bridge fell away. Fitzwilliam sank. Dorian turned, reaching out. Helpless._ Despite the chill, winter mountain air invading his shelter, he found his bedroll soaked with sweat. He’d spent hours denying it, lying to himself, but now there was nothing for it – he had to be sure Fitzwilliam was okay. He couldn’t shake the feelings the memories drudged up. He had woken him twice now. It was time to admit he would find no rest this night. Dorian bundled up in a cloak and shoved his feet into his boots. They were freezing. He wore nothing but a pair of linen trousers. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered at this moment except making his way to Fitzwilliam’s tent. Proving to himself it was over. They were safe.

It was easy to find. It was one of the largest tents, only the council’s meeting canopy could boast more area. The top and sides bore the mark of the Inquisition, over it a blue flag waved. It signaled to those in the know that it was the Inquisitor’s. _Should be red._ He’d become familiar with that tent over the last two weeks. But he hadn’t been inside it. It had been two weeks of avoiding each other after that row they’d had. Two weeks of Fitzwilliam being conveniently too busy strategizing, and Dorian being conveniently too drunk with the soldiers, and The Chargers, and anyone else who would share a drink with a treacherous Vint – It had been pretty much everyone, actually. That had been a pleasant surprise. And yes, it was still surprising even after he’d read Bull’s reports. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to not being a pariah. Just didn’t feel natural.

But now, now Dorian stood outside that tent. Then men at the flaps were a couple of Bull’s, Grim and Krem. They knew Dorian and they didn’t stop him, but for a moment he almost turned around anyway. He wasn’t worried they’d refuse him, but he did look quite the fool. Bed-disheveled, half-naked, wrapped in a cloak and plodding around in unlaced boots as wind swirled snowflakes around him. _Of course Fitzwilliam is fine._ He thought as he stared at the flaps. _Avoiding me, but fine._ As fine as anyone could be after that ordeal in the fade.

From inside the tent came an abrupt sound of distress. He looked at one of the Chargers, Grim. _Shouldn’t they be making sure Fitzwilliam isn’t being attacked?_ “He’s been having nightmares,” Krem said without Dorian even looking over. “We checked the first three times, but he had some choice words the third time. Some threats the boss would’ve been proud of.”

 _Well, that’s that then._ Dorian strode into the tent. It was actually quite warm inside. A brazier had been lit for the Inquisitor and the floor was covered in heavy carpets. More perks. Dorian wasn’t ashamed to admit to a little jealousy. And a little shame. If he’d talked to Fitz like a man he could have been enjoying much more comfortable nights. He shrugged out of the cloak and toed off his boots while his eyes adjusted to the light. It was dim, but more than enough to see by. Fitzwilliam was sitting up, shirtless, looking at him with a stunned expression on his face. He scrambled to stand, blankets tumbling and tangling. Dorian moved toward him with purpose.

“Dorian I,” Fitzwilliam stammered, “I’m sorry.”

Dorian grabbed him, his cold hands pulling on Fitzwilliam’s warm skin, dragging him closer. “Me too,” he growled quietly before he captured the Inquisitor’s lips. The kiss wasn’t what he had intended. He’d wanted to be soft, affectionate, to show Fitzwilliam that all was forgiven, to show him how much he cared, since he could not seem to find the words. But this kiss was not that kiss. It was hard and needy. It was not without affection, but the drive behind it was something he hadn’t even known until this moment.

Dorian needed to _feel_ , to know he was alive, and he needed to feel Fitzwilliam alive under him. Real, and hot, and _his._

He felt Fitzwilliam’s hands pulling at his skin, gripping his shoulders, scratching across his back as he returned the kiss with equal fervor. They were both moaning, gasping. Fitzwilliam’s hands slipped lower, into his breeches, making contact with his skin, his nails raked over his hips and ass and Dorian felt fire in his veins. He pulled away to pull them off, then tossed the garment somewhere and pulled Fitz back to him. He pressed close, skin on skin. It had been too long. He closed his eyes and kissed him again.

Behind his lids blinding green flashed. His eyes shot open again. His heart hammered in his chest. The adrenaline of terror made him shake. With trembling hands he pulled Fitzwilliam closer held him more tightly, wrapping himself around him as completely as he could and holding him. Clinging to him until the horror passed he could think again. _He’s right here._ Fitzwilliam was shifting uneasily when Dorian finally pulled back and kissed him again. The man might even have said something but Dorian couldn’t. Not right now. The need. He had to focus on the need and not the fear. His hands reached down unlacing Fitzwilliam’s trousers. He was pulling at the rawhide string roughly, biting and kissing at the Inquisitor’s neck. The soft sounds Fitzwilliam made went straight to his cock, making it twitch.

He finally got the lacing undone and shoved his hand beneath, unceremoniously, to grasp Fitzwilliam’s member. _Maker’s breath, he’s hard as anything._ He stroked a few times, grasping firmly, pumping roughly and the man moaned low and long. Part of him wanted to take his time, just as part of him had wanted the kiss to be tender and loving. But he was riding on instinct now.

He removed his hand and shoved Fitzwilliam backward, hard. He fell, trousers half on as they were, and landed on his back on the pile of blankets and pelts. Dorian fell to his knees between the Inquisitor’s legs and grabbed the offending garment by the waistband. He pulled them, roughly, down Fitzwilliam’s legs and threw them aside callously. He couldn’t even spare a moment to appreciate Fitz’s light-tan skin in the red-golden light of the brazier. His mind took it in, but it was overpowered by the necessity of touching. He leaned over grabbed Fitzwilliam’s hips and flipped him onto his stomach. Despite the unusual roughness, Fitzwilliam moaned, and Dorian knew, in that moment, Fitz needed this just as much as he did. Dorian needed to seize control and his Inquisitor needed to give it up.

Dorian had, at least, the presence of mind not to want to _hurt_ Fitzwilliam. Even has he grabbed the Inquisitor’s hips, pulling his ass up and back he said, “Oil.” Was that his voice? All rough and demanding. Fitzwilliam fumbled in a bag near the sleeping matt and produced a vial. The man was always prepared for everything. In another moment he would think of that fondly. In this one Dorian uncorked the vial with his teeth, slicked up his cock, and dribbled some oil down Fitzwilliam’s ass crack. He replaced the stopper and dropped the glass container.

He couldn’t muster the will to go slowly. He _needed_ to feel Fitzwilliam hot and warm around him. Writhing and keening and _his._ Alive. His hand went to the man’s hips, the other grasped his cock and positioned it at the tight ring of muscle before him. He held steady and pressed forward. Fitzwilliam’s ass offered some resistance, but he felt the man relax and he pushed harder, through the tightness and friction, overcoming it with force. In one long thrust he was fully inside and he let out a long drawn out, “ _Andraste_ ,” as he felt the heat engulf him. It felt like when he drew the magic to him, just before he let it out in a scorching fury. It felt like _power._ His hands went to Fitzwilliam’s hips and he began thrusting roughly his pace hard and unforgiving. He was muttering and only occasionally did he hear himself. “ _This_ is no dream,” he gasped. “This is me hard and buried inside you.” He wasn’t sure who the words were for – him or Fitzwilliam

“Yes,” he heard Fitzwilliam hiss. The Inquisitor’s hips were thrusting back against him eagerly though Dorian was sure the process hadn’t been completely painless for the man. It seemed, regardless of that, Fitzwilliam needed this as much as Dorian did.

“Maker’s breath, Fitz” he groaned as Fitzwilliam’s entire body shuddered around him. His rhythm faltered, his next few thrusts coming staggered and uneven. It made the man under him cry out in pleasure. Dorian leaned over slightly, seating himself deep inside Fitzwilliam and holding there as he whispered, “Two of the chargers are right outside, Fitz.” He reached around and grasped Fitzwilliam’s cock in his hand. “They can hear you. Are you going to let them know you’re being fucked?”

Fitzwilliam whimpered, shook his head, tried not to thrust forward into Dorian’s grip, or back farther onto his cock. “No?” Dorian asked. He pulled back his hips thrust into Fitzwilliam as his fist still grasping his manhood, pumping. Fitzwilliam wailed, screaming in pleasure. “I don’t know, Fitz,” he said continuing. “If you keep that up they’ll hear you arrive as well.”

Fitzwilliam’s entire body was trembling, his muscles quivering in protest, rocking his hips mindlessly. He was utterly lost in Dorian’s touch. “Please,” the Inquisitor gasped.

“Please what?” Dorian asked.

Fitzwilliam was not a base man. When they had intercourse he was soft, sweet, hardly ever vulgar, and never crude. So the words he uttered next sent Dorian into a mindless spiral of pleasure and primal need. “Fuck me,” the Inquisitor groaned.

There was no pacing, no rhythm in what came next. Dorian shoved Fitzwilliam flat against the blankets below them, extending his whole body along his length and writhed against his back. His mouth bit at his shoulder. Dorian’s body protested, burning spread across his shoulders and back from the effort of holding himself up. Already battle-worn, his muscles trembled with the effort. Somewhere in the haze he felt Fitzwilliam shift, sliding a hand under himself. “Fuck, Dorian,” he gasped. Dorian complied.

He only just managing to hold himself up off Fitzwilliam. His head dipped low, whispering into Fitzwilliam’s ear. “Nothing’s taking you from me,” he muttered mindlessly. His cock slid easily, he could feel the man under him quivering endlessly. “Not like this. With my cock inside you we can’t be separated.” He was thrusting hard and fast, they were both moving forward, up the nest of blankets and pelts, an inch at a time. “I’m going to spill myself inside you, Fitz,” he moaned. He was no longer able to choose which words he said, they all poured out of him. “I’m going to bury myself deep inside you, and I’m going to fill it. And then, uuughn, then nothing can take me away from you.” He felt it building, the liquid heat in his core that meant any moment, any thrust, would be the last.

“I’m here,” he heard Fitzwilliam gasping. The man’s free hand came around to clutch at Dorian, fingers gripping wildly, trying to seize any bit of flesh by which he could pull Dorian closer. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here.”

Dorian felt his heart swell and his eyes tear up even as his orgasm ripped through him. He heard Fitzwilliam cry out his name, felt the spasms that bloomed as he too found satisfaction.

They panted, lying still for a moment before Dorian rolled off Fitzwilliam and shoved his face into the blankets. He started sobbing. Fitzwilliam attempted to sooth him, his hands wandered across Dorian’s exposed flesh, his voice came in soft comforting coos, but Dorian couldn’t stop. His breath was ragged, harsh keening wails tore from his throat. He thought he heard the tent flap open, felt a cool breeze, but he couldn’t bring himself to look. He clutched blankets in his fists like lifelines. He felt Fitzwilliam shift, move off the pile of mats and blankets. He wanted to reach out, cling to him, beg him to stay, but he could do nothing but weep.

After a moment he heard Fitzwilliam settle next to him. His warm hands reached out… no, not hands, a warm wet rag, smoothing across Dorian’s back. “Steady,” he heard him say. It was what one would say to a fledgling colt during training. Dorian didn’t understand why, but it calmed him some. He let Fitzwilliam take control now. So when he reached out and pushed on Dorian’s shoulder the mage rolled onto his back accommodatingly. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaked through. He couldn’t look at him. Dorian heard a splash of water, then Fitzwilliam pressed the rag to his chest and began wiping away the sweat and dirt and sex from his cooling skin. Dorian heard him dunk the cloth and ring it out, the water sloshing and splashing. It was loud in the stillness. Fitzwilliam didn’t stop until he’d cleaned all of Dorian’s available skin. Dorian lay, silently weeping, taking short shuddering breaths, letting out shaky sobs.

Finally, he heard Fitzwilliam move, presumably putting the rag and bowl aside. He lay down, pulling Dorian close, face to face. His hands smoothed over Dorian, he pressed kisses to his cheeks and eyebrows and shoulders and lips and neck. “Shhh,” he said softly petting his hair. “Dorian,” his voice was low, coaxing, the call of it ineffable. “Look to me.” He could do nothing but obey. His eyes fluttered open. The dim light of the brazier seemed as a sun after the harsh darkness behind his lids. He blinked. His eyes focused. _Fiztwilliam_. The brilliant blue eyes, kind, concerned. The stubbled jaw. His mouth, soft, sweet. No real smile, he was not _happy_. This was not a time to be happy, but it was kind. His hand cupped Dorian’s jaw, his thumb stroked his cheek. Dorian began to shiver and Fitzwilliam pulled the blankets over them. The tears slowed and then stopped but the Inquisitor’s actions did not. He touched and kissed and pet. Dorian felt cherished and cared for and safe. Finally.

The exertion and the warmth overcame him, he felt his eyelids grow heavy. “Did I hurt you?” He asked groggily. His one last concern unable to stay hidden.

“No, Dorian,” Fitzwilliam whispered softly. He pulled Dorian closer.

Dorian fell asleep.

…

_Falling. Green light engulfing him. Fitzwilliam fading from view._

Dorian woke with a scream. _Fitzwilliam. He’s gone._ The room was dark now. He groped and found Fitzwilliam curled on his side with his back to Dorian. He wrapped his arms around the man, pulling him against his chest. “Alright?” Fitzwilliam mumbled with sleepy concern.

“No,” Dorian muttered, kissing along the man’s shoulder. “The dreams.” He felt Fitzwilliam’s hands grab his arms and squeeze them gently.

“I’m having them too.” His voice was rough with sleep. “I’m here, Doe.”

Dorian only noticed the tears when one rolled down his cheek and landed on his arm. It wasn’t like him to cry so much. He felt things deeply, it was true. And perhaps he was more prone than many to getting misty-eyed and emotional, but these waterworks…

He felt Fitzwilliam’s hand reach behind him seeking, and finding, Dorian’s soft member. He touched gently, teasing and stroking and Dorian let soft sighs out into the inky night. When he was hard Fitzwilliam withdrew his hand, and pressed his backside against the mage’s length. “Come to me Dorian,” he whispered. Dorian eased his tight grip reluctantly and slid a hand down over Fitzwilliam’s hip, under his thigh, and lifted his leg. If Fitzwilliam had cleaned up after their encounter he hadn’t been very thorough. He found Fitzwilliam still slick. He slid home easily. Fitzwilliam winced, a sharp hiss escaping his lips. Dorian seated himself deeply and held still, dropping the man’s leg and grabbing his hip to hold him. He rubbed his thumb back and forth there and placed sloppy kisses along Fitzwilliam’s neck and shoulder. “You’re here,” he whispered.

“We’re okay, Doe,” Fitzwilliam replied softly. Then he pressed back against the mage in a way that made him gasp.

There were no more words then. Dorian took Fitzwilliam gently. It came as a sharp contrast to the desperate needy efforts of the earlier evening.  His movements were slow and tender. He held him as closely as possible, stroking his hands over every reachable inch of skin. He felt things bubbling up inside him, things he wanted to say, but no. Not yet. He couldn’t. No words would come. They rocked against each other until Dorian had lost all concept of time. Until he had lost the ability to think about anything but Fitzwilliam around him and the soft noises of pleasure the man made. He didn’t have to change his pace. For once he let the pleasure build slowly. He slid his hand over Fitzwilliam’s stomach and then down, grasping his hardness and moving his hand in deliberate unhurried strokes. Fitzwilliam writhed under his touch, gasping, thrusting his hips forward into Dorian’s hand. But The Inquisitor didn’t try to hurry their pace either. They’d found a rhythm, they were performing a dance.

Dorian held back the fire that pooled in his core, waiting to unfurl until he heard Fitzwilliam’s soft cry of pleasure, felt him begin to quake. And as the warm slick of the Inquisitors essence coated his hand he pressed deep and released himself within. His head burrowed into Fitz’s shoulder and Dorian moaned quietly. Something that had been building, dangerously, in him melted away. Something else swelled to take its place. He kissed Fitzwilliam’s back tenderly, pulled him close, and breathed deeply. If felt like the first real breath he had taken since they departed Skyhold.

No one moved. Soon they were asleep.

VVV

 

 

Finally, they could say they were on the last stretch of the journey. They’d hit Skyhold by nightfall, sooner if the weather held. Dorian was riding, lost in his thoughts. It was probably for the best that his horse was a stupid thing that would just plod along with the line, because Maker knew Dorian was paying _no_ attention. Oh sure, he held the reigns, but they were limp. If the horse took off for a cliff at this moment that would be the end of him. His head was full of things. The dream in the Winter Palace, the fall into the fade. Facing, for the first time, the real possibility that he was going to lose Fitzwilliam, and soon.

He’d begun to brood pretty determinedly when someone rode up beside him. He blinked, and looked over. Fitzwilliam sat on the Red Heart to his left. A slight grimace twisted his lips and he shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. It had been near a week since their frenzied midnight encounter in the tent but they hadn’t spent a night apart since then. He really ought to give the man a chance to heal properly. These long rides on hard road probably weren’t helping either.

 Apparently, he was just noticing, everyone else had fallen back or moved forward to give them some privacy. _This can’t be good._ He put on his most charming smile. “Your worship,” he said, tilting his head respectfully.

The small amused smile that brightened the Inquisitor’s face washed away all the things Dorian had been feeling the weight of. Later, that would terrify him. For this moment, however, he indulged the light giddy feeling. “Master Pavus,” Fitzwilliam replied. There was brief silence before Fitz blurted out, “Are you alright after what happened?”

Dorian couldn’t help but bark a short laugh. “I’m _alive_ , Amatus. That’s a great deal more than I had bargained for.” To his credit the Inquisitor didn’t look like he quite believed the mage. “Are…” Dorian began thoughtfully. “Are _you?”_

“I’m fine,” Fitzwilliam said curtly.

“Fitz,” Dorian said in a low, disbelieving voice. And if a little anger entered it too, when who could blame him. They’d managed near a week without ever talking about this. Now, the Inquisitor had chosen this moment to bring it up. Fitzwilliam could lie to the entire army if he wanted but after the night they had shared at Adamant? They’d seen one another raw that night, naked and frightened in the darkness. No, there would be no hiding now. “I was _there_. I _saw_ it. You’re just… fine?”

“Yes,” he said. He words were too crisp, his back too stiff – he was putting on act. Which made sense. He’d been spending most of his time putting on a brave face for the men, letting them see a strong leader. A living legend. Not a man.

“Well,” Dorian said with a smirk, voice positively dripping sarcasm, “ _bravo._ ”

Fitzwilliam’s shoulders slumped with the words, the façade of the Inquisitor falling away for a moment. “Stroud,” was all he said. Dorian nodded and waited for more. Eventually, the Inquisitor continued, “It was like walking in a nightmare,” he said voice low, eyes looking far away, “but everything was real. I couldn’t…”

“Ah,” Dorian said when he’d fallen silent again. “It’s as I thought.” He waited but Fitz said nothing. So Dorian prattled on. “The fade is an ordeal under normal circumstances. To be the only real thing there… beyond description. That any of us made it out alive is difficult to believe. That  _you_  made it out… a miracle.” Dorian couldn’t help but smile at that, and for a moment Fitzwilliam caught his eye and smiled too. “You  _do_  realize,” Dorian said seriously once the moment had passed, “this feat hasn’t been performed in over a thousand years. Coryphaeus and his contemporaries entered the fade and began the blights. In comparison…”

“Well,” Fitzwilliam said at last, “at least you were at my side.”

Dorian laughed softly. “Always looking for the silver lining, my unicorn,” he said affectionately. It was hard to tell, but Dorian thought Fitzwilliam flushed a bit at the endearment. He felt his heart flutter. “No offense, but I’d almost rather I hadn’t been.”

“No sense of adventure?” Fitzwilliam joked lightly. “That’s surprising.”

“ _I’ve_ not your talent for survival,” Dorian ribbed back.

There was a moment of silence and Fitzwilliam’s face changed to something more curious. “So I should, what? Be happy I’ve accomplished something so grand?”

Dorian shook his head. The weight of the conversation was back. The trip had revealed many things. Some of them _very_ dangerous. “Concerned, more like,” Dorian replied.

Fitzwilliam’s eyes widened. “That’s not exactly comforting,” he said, voice tight once more.

“Nor should it be,” the mage replied. “If you can walk in the fade, others will try to follow. Who knows what secrets Coryphaeus has revealed? Not all of them will be as lucky as you. What they could unleash… My advice? Keep this quiet. Let them speculate. Too many will see this as a challenge.”

“Do I need to worry about you?” Fitzwilliam asked honestly. “If I know one mage who loves a challenge… well, I would think you would number among those who would see this as one.”

“Oh,” Dorian said enthusiastically. “It’s _tempting._ ” And then he felt his whole body shiver. He saw the tombstone behind his eyelids, his name across the top. Fitzwilliam was staring at him. Concern covered his features. “The cold,” Dorian said in explanation. He hopped it came off as dismissive and pulled his cloak tighter. “But, no. I’m no fool.”

“Well, what _do_ we say then?” Fitzwilliam asked. “There were too many witnesses. There’s no way word of this _isn’t_ getting out.”

Dorian shrugged. “Be that as it may, as long as you never address it? It will remain part of your legend. If they think it’s real… they’ll come for you Fitz.” He was being as sincere as he could, using his tone to implore the Inquisitor to take this seriously.

It didn’t really work.

“And I should be afraid of them? I’m fighting a would-be god!” He chuckled.

Dorian glared. “Fear them, or not, as you choose, Fitzwilliam,” he said roughly. “But you’ve enough problems.”

Fitzwilliam’s eyes met his, soft. His words carried apology. “I’m sorry, Dorian. It’s a good idea.”

Dorian nodded once. “There are enough idiots in the world who think if they just use enough blood magic their problems will vanish… It’s exactly the kind of thing I want to stop, back home.”

“Back home,” he heard Fitzwilliam mutter to himself. He looked so sad in that moment. Then, abruptly, he laughed. “I learned a surprising amount. What happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, for one.”

Dorian was confused but he could not help but be glad for that news. “You’re regained your memories then?” He asked, waiting for Fitzwilliam’s smile before beaming back at him. “That’s _good_ then!”

“I think so,” Fitzwilliam replied tenderly.

And then, naturally, they were interrupted. Fitzwilliam was whisked off to talk with the council, who would, of course, also monopolize the Inquisitor’s time with a debriefing in the war room once they arrived.

Dorian would be left with his thoughts for many hours.

The high of being with Fitzwilliam wore of quickly and Dorian was plunged back into thinking of a great many things he’d prefer to avoid. If he didn’t have to sit in the blasted saddle for several more hours he’d find a drink. Or twelve. Instead he jostled around as dark thoughts filled his head.

When they arrived at Skyhold, well _after_ dark, Dorian was fuming. Why had he been so stubborn? They’d had time, on the way to Adamant, to address their argument. To make it right. But not only had Dorian not sought the Inquisitor out he had _avoided_ him. _Again_. Over and over he ran from his feelings and the man who inspired them. And this time… Dorian dismounted and headed toward the tower. His stomach turned.

 _This time I almost lost my chance to make things right._ He could see it again. Fitzwilliam falling into nothingness. Their last words to each other had been in anger. Days and days before that moment. A fight. A fight in which everyone had good intentions. If Fitzwilliam had truly been gone and that had been their last moment together…

Dorian had to stop his progress to the tower. He was going to be ill. He found a wall and braced himself. His palms pressed against it, the cold stone bit into his palms, grounding him. He leaned over and tried to breathe. Long slow draws of cold air. _In and out._ His stomach would not quiet. _If I lose him, I lose myself._ The thought was jarring, painful. He had worked so hard to keep himself. He had left home. He had given up everything. And now… When had this happened?  Dorian wanted to pretend he would move on, try to live on because he knew that was what Fitzwilliam would want. But he knew the truth. He wasn’t that strong. He would have lost himself in drink. He’d be a different Dorian. Not the one he had been before, not the one his father had tried to create, not the one he was now. Without Fitzwilliam, this Dorian would die. 

He stopped fighting the roiling in his gut. With a great heave Dorian emptied the meager contents of his stomach onto the snow beside the wall. “Well,” he gasped, talking to the air. “That was rather undignified.” He stood and turned looking around, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It was his lucky day, there had been no one to see the display. His gaze lingered on the tavern. It was more tempting now than ever.

But no. He had work to do. He’d learned on this trip. He was fairly sure, if he could find anything worthy in the library, he could make a real contribution to this cause. He’d drown himself in research, not whiskey. He moved back to the hall stairs with resolve.

 

AN: And that’s 15! Thanks to everyone for their support, comments, kudos, what have you! You’re brilliant readers and I appreciate how much you care for this story. Be well!

 

Worth Noting: Someone mentioned that the Winter Palace came after Adamant. I could have sworn I did the Ball /well/ before Adamant so I looked it up in the strat guide. "Wicked eyes and wicked hearts" and "Here lies the abyss" can be completed in any order but both must be completed before "What pride had wrought". Lest you all think I've gone off my rocker:)


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 16

Honestly, Dorian had thought it would work. He usually lost himself in research. So, it just seemed to follow that delving into his work would calm his mind. But… “The bloody Inquisition’s bloody, so-called-library, is a bloody disgrace!” Dorian yelled in frustration. It didn’t matter. He’d been storming around the keep for hours. It hadn’t taken long for the building to become abandoned. Grand Enchanter Fiona left after Dorian threw a _tenth_ copy of _A Brief Account of the Divines_ at her. Well, not _at_ her, he hadn’t been _aiming_ for her, exactly. It just sort of… landed near her. Even the tranquil had departed when Dorian found _another_ of Varric’s smutty books in the Orlesian Classics section and promptly burst it into flame. The smoke had upset the ravens in the rookery and that had drawn Leliana, who, after seeing the state of the mage, had apparently cleared out the rest of the tower.

Dorian was reexamining a shelf when he heard steps behind him. He _tried_ , really he did, to affect a relaxed posture. He turn to see who it was, didn’t need to hear them speak. There was only one person who would have come here on purpose after Leliana had forewarned all of Skyhold. If half the nobles in the hall hadn’t heard about Dorian’s fit he’d be well and truly shocked. “You have remarkably little here on early Tevinter history,” he said as casually as possible. "All these 'gifts' to the Inquisition and the best they can do is the _Malefica Imperio_? Trite propaganda.” He felt the scowl curl his lip. “But if you want twenty volumes on whether Divine Galatea took a shit on Sunday, this is evidently the place to find it." He tossed just such a book over his shoulder to land on the floor with a heavy ‘thunk’ which reverberated in the empty cylindrical room.

“That’s the Dorian I know,” Fitzwilliam said. To his credit the man was trying valiantly to be charming. “Critiquing every book in my library.”

It irked Dorian. His complaints with regard to the library were not frippery! He turned and faced the Inquisitor. “I wouldn’t have to if you could find some _rebellious heretic archivists_ to join the cause,” he spat.

But the man didn’t seem all that taken aback by Dorian’s attitude. He continued on, joking, “Are there rebellious archivists, other than you, that is?”

Dorian _glared_. “If Coryphaeus ever starts burning masterworks of literature I’m sure a few will pop up,” he replied with a huff.

That prompted a moment of silence from Fitzwilliam. He looked as if he were recalculating. “I see,” he said slowly, cautiously. “My library is not up to your exacting standards?”

 _He’s trying to figure out why I’m mad,_ Dorian realized angrily. _He thinks he can make me behave._ “It’s alarmingly chaotic!” Dorian shouted, arms flailing in exasperation. It was _quite_ dignified. “I found a copy of the _Orabalion_ in what appeared to be the Antivian Classics section!”

“How scandalous!” Fitzwilliam said teasingly. Another effort to diffuse him. Dorian grit his teeth. “Someone alert the Magisterium!”

Dorian narrowed his eyes in distaste. “You laugh, but in _some_ places there are punishments for that.” It was pretty clear ‘some’ meant ‘better’. Dorian turned back to the shelf, a useless effort to try and reign himself in. “Did I see something by Genitivi here? I could have sworn,” he said absentmindedly.

For long minutes there nothing was said. Dorian pulled out book after book. either tossing it aside as rubbish, or re-shelving it. The Inquisitor watched. Dorian avoided looking at him, but he could feel those calculating eyes on him. Trying to read him, trying to figure out a next action.

Finally, Fitzwilliam spoke. “If I knew what you were looking for, I could help you,” he suggested. He wanted to be supportive. He was being kind, Dorian could hear it in his voice. But for some reason that infuriated him. Fitzwilliam didn’t know his way around a cataloging system! The pure brass of the man, thinking he could fix _every sodding thing under the sun_.

Dorian wheeled on him, sneer on his face, disdain in his voice. “Ha, _you_?” He scoffed venomously. “I rather doubt that.”

The moment the cruel words were out Dorian wished he could have them back. That was always the way of things. Fitzwilliam looked shocked but the expression soon melted into bewildered hurt. Maker, did the man have to be _so_ expressive all the time? Dorian sighed heavily, “I apologize,” he said, annoyed with himself. “That was unworthy.” Fitzwilliam nodded, graciously accepting the apology. Dorian couldn’t endure looking at him. He turned back to the books. “This…” he said, gesturing to Fitzwilliam and the friction the argument had wrought, “this I _don’t_ need. What I _do_  need is a copy of  _The Liberalum._  I’ll wager I can find Coryphaeus’s real name. If I can prove he was a grasping ankle-bitter with no family to speak of, the luster would come right off.”

He must have said or done something irksome because when Fitzwilliam spoke again his voice was hard with anger. “What is this about Dorian?”

Something about the even, commanding tone of his voice made the anger and frustration bubble back to the surface and Dorian spun to face him. “When we fell into the chasm, into the fade… I don’t know if I can forgive you for that moment,” Dorian said harshly.

“ _Forgive me_?” Fitz asked, confused and angry. “You were right there with me the entire time! Just like _you_ wanted, if you’re recall!” Dorian glared at him, but the man wasn’t wrong. “I didn’t open that rift on purpose, you know. Might be handy if I could.”

The man joked about things that terrified Dorian to his core. The _arrogance_. “Certainly!” Dorian shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. “Let’s tear holes in the fade, willy-nilly! Historically, that _has_ worked out well!”

Fitzwilliam rubbed his face. “I’m here and _alive_ , aren’t I?” He asked. His voice, coming loud and hard, was a mix of confused and frustrated. “As are _you_. What more do you _want_ from me Dorian?” They had descended fully into screaming now.

“I _want_ for you to not be such an arrogant, cocksure _fool_ , _Inquisitor!_ ” Dorian’s ringing, oddly high-pitched insult echoed off the walls of the tower. And probably out all the widows, the up to the rookery, and through the doors all the way to the hall where people were gathered.

The silence that followed was _profound_. No ravens, no chatter from the meal. Nothing but harsh breathing and Fitzwilliam’s scowl. “Master Pavus,” he said in a voice that demanded nothing less than absolute obedience, “you will leave this place, you will take the servant stair to my quarters and you will _wait_ for me there.”

A smart man would have seen the danger in the room – the danger of pressing a good man until he broke. A wise man would have eaten his crow and moved on. A clever man would have sweet-talked his way out of it. Dorian liked to think he was all of those things. But in this moment he was nothing more than an angry, confused fool.

So, instead of doing any of those very reasonable things, he bent the Inquisitor a mocking bow, all flourishes and ridiculousness and said, “As you command, your worship,” as a man might say ‘go fuck yourself’. He didn’t look up. He just turned on his heel and stomped off.  

 

 

VVV

Fitzwilliam rolled in like a storm. And for that Dorian was glad because he was still seething. How dare he _order_ him to come to his rooms like this, hide away his anger from unsavory opinion? The Inquisitor strode forward furiously, removing his off-white jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his linen undershirt. Dorian quirked a brow at him. “Shall I just stand here while you get comfortable, your worship,” he said bitingly.

Fitzwilliam sat at his desk, unlacing his boots, and said, without looking at him, “Shut up, Dorian.”

Dorian clenched his jaw and bowed mockingly. “As your grace commands,” he said through grit teeth. That earned a glare from Fitzwilliam but nothing more than that as the man pulled off his boots and set them aside. He walked to the fire and stood before it. He lifted his hands, palms out toward the flame, warming them. He rubbed them together, then fisted one over the other and brought them to his mouth. He blew then moved to the woodpile, adding another couple of logs to the fire. At last, he turned, hands clasped behind his back, and walked toward the mage. Dorian stood rigidly, face angry, ready to explode.

Fitzwilliam stopped before him, looking him up and down appraisingly, and said, “Alright, Dorian. What’s going on? No more rants about racist books. No more shit. Why are you so mad?” He wasn’t using the authoritative voice with which had ordered him here. He wasn’t even wearing the Inquisitor’s unofficial uniform. That whole show of disrobing, stoking the fire, walking about in his woolen socks, Dorian could see it for what it was now. Fitzwilliam had taken pains to shuck the façade of the Inquisitor. Here, alone with no noble ears, no soldier’s eyes, he could be _Fitz._ He could address him as himself. Dorian could not understand why but that only fueled his ichor.

“You,” he spat with so much venom it made Fitzwilliam flinch. “You’re what’s wrong, Fitzwilliam. We go into that fight, hoping against hope that we can end things for good. And of course things go wrong, they _always_ go wrong. But when they did what did you do?” His voice was getting louder but he couldn’t help it. It was lucky Fitzwilliam’s rooms were so removed from the hall. At least no one would hear them rowing.

“I told you to run?” Fitzwilliam practically squeaked. Maker, he was starting to look genuinely scared, but Dorian couldn’t seem to stop now that he’d started. He had held everything so tightly. Insisted on such absolute control of his emotions that once the snag had begun there was no mending it. Now everything was coming out in one huge ball of messy emotion, like the unraveling of a knit sock.

“You sent me ahead!” Dorian yelled. “You sent me ahead and then didn’t follow!” He spun in a circle. “Me? I’m a footnote in this story, Fitzwilliam. If you live I read ‘a close confidant of the Herald of Andraste’ but if you die? Well, then I’m ‘the Vint who caused the downfall of the Herald. A traitor and a villain.’ He was babbling, he could see it happening, as if to another devilishly handsome mage, one he was helpless to stop.

“And that’s why you’re mad?” Fitzwilliam asked, confused. “Because I almost died? Because you were worried about how that would look?”

“No,” Dorian groaned. “And yes.”

“Make sense!” Fitzwilliam finally bellowed.

“You sent me ahead and didn’t follow, Fitz! For just a moment I was certain you wouldn’t.” He was shouting, his voice cracked with emotion. “And I thought, ‘this is it, this is where I finally lose him forever. I knew it would come and here it is’. I don’t know if I can forgive you for that moment. For making me think you were dead.” _And now I’m just repeating myself._ He walked to the bed, not so much sitting on it as flopping inelegantly. He rested his elbows on his knees, hung his head, squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and fisted his fingers in his hair. When he spoke again his voice had lost all its heat, it was low, aching. “I had lost you. I loved you, and you were gone. And our last words had been in anger. And that was my fault, my stupid pride, my foolhardy stubbornness. When the bridge fell out from under me I was relieved.., I was relieved because… I didn’t want to go on in a world where you… weren’t,” he finished somewhat inarticulately. It didn’t matter. For once Dorian couldn’t be bothered with any more _words_. He couldn’t even process the ones he had just said. All he had been feeling, everything he had kept in for so long, had flooded out of him without rhyme or reason. Now all he could think on was how selfish he sounded. How Fitzwilliam would hate him.

He heard the shuffle of feet moving toward him and the swish of fabric as Fitzwilliam knelt on the floor before him. Dorian tried to open his eyes to face this moment, this ending, with courage but he found he hadn’t the strength. He felt a hand reach up and touch his face. The tender touch was confusing. The Inquisitor should be angry. He should be lecturing him on how they are serving something greater than themselves, about how they cannot afford to be selfish. But he wasn’t. He was touching him gently, pulling his hands out of his hair, smoothing where Dorian had ruffled it, cupping his cheek. And then soft and coaxing lips were on his. Dorian gave in, kissing back, sure that this would be the last time he would get to feel it.

It went on for long minutes, never growing in intensity. It stayed a tender kiss full of raw emotion. When Fitzwilliam stopped his hand was wrapped around the back of Dorian’s neck, his forehead rested against Dorian’s own. For a second they shared silence and breath. And then Fitzwilliam spoke, his voice easy and sweet, and wavering, “I love you, Dorian.”

Dorian’s eyes shot open as he drew his head slightly back and he stared at the man before him, unbelieving. Shock had a way of making you feel like you were moving against a current. He tried several times to speak, working his open mouth, but nothing came. Fitzwilliam smiled up at him, his fingers caressing his neck gently.

“You’re right, of course,” the Inquisitor continued. “I sent you ahead instead of going myself. And maybe that _was_ selfish, but it was hardly the end of my selfish decisions.” Fitzwilliam took a deep breath, steadying himself and continued hurriedly, “As I fell, I watched you – I needed to know you were safe. It wasn’t until I saw you falling that I felt the need to do something to save us. I didn’t know the rift would open, but I had to try something. If you hadn’t fallen with me I may not have even realized I could. And if I had gone on without you and you fell and I did not? Well, I’m sorry to burst that bubble of martyrdom, but I would have jumped in after you, Doe. Out of pure reflex I would have tried to save you. You aren’t a liability. You’re motivation.” He finished in a rush, but with a small smile lingering on his lips. His eyes seemed to be begging Dorian to understand.

Finally, Dorian managed to get his brain around how to speak. “Say it again,” he said, voice hardly a whisper. It didn’t sound like him. What was that he could hear in it? It was so foreign.

“You aren’t a liability?” Fitzwilliam said, sounding a bit unsure. Dorian shook his head and watched the Inquisitor’s face crinkle in confusion.

“Not that,” Dorian said. “Tell me you love me.” _Hope_ , he realized. The thing he had heard in his voice was hope.

Fitzwilliam still looked quizzical and Dorian felt his heart pound. _He can still take it back_ , the thought frantically. Until the man’s face broke out in a grin, and he gazed intently into Dorian’s eyes. “I love you, Doe,” he said. There was no hesitation. He sounded so _sure._

And there was nothing for it – Dorian _believed_ him. He felt the wetness in his eyes. As he squeezed them shut the tears rolled down his face heavy and hot. Fitzwilliam’s hand was warm against the skin of his neck. Dorian lifted his hand to it, covering it with his own, squeezing gently. “I love you too.” He whispered.

“I know,” Fitzwilliam said, Dorian could hear the smile in it as he bent his head to rest against the Inquisitor’s. “I’ve known for ages. I was just waiting for you to catch up.” Dorian chuckled softly. They stayed that way for a while. And Dorian felt his heart aching, his head spinning, with the force his denial crashing down around him. He had spent all this time avoiding and denying these feelings, sure, somehow, that he was not worthy to have them returned. His world was a drastically different place than it had been just a moment ago. It was enough to shatter a mind.

 He felt Fitzwilliam shift, moving away, and forced his eyes open, worried he was leaving. Fitzwilliam sat on the bed beside him, then touched him, wordlessly asking him to turn and look. The mage did so. He could, in fact, have done nothing else. Fitzwilliam took his hands in his own. “Dorian,” he said tenderly. “I know I can’t make promises to you about the outcome of what the coming days will bring. We both know how unlikely it is that everyone we care about is going to make it out of this alive.” Dorian nodded. He knew all too well. From the beginning Dorian had never expected to survive this. He had intended to die for this cause. To show that Tevinter was not composed solely of raging villains. “I… there aren’t very many promises I _can_ make until we defeat Coryphaeus,” Fitzwilliam said and Dorian could hear the pain in his voice. “But I told you before. I keep fighting the darkness because I have reasons to stay, things to fight for. _You_ are first among them.”

Dorian squeezed Fitzwilliam’s hands. He managed a lopsided half-smile and said, with great affection, “You are the most frustrating man.”

Fitzwilliam chuckled softly. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he had the good sense to look sheepish.

“Don’t be,” Dorian replied, leaning forward and briefly capturing Fitzwilliam’s lips with his own. He parted from the Inquisitor reluctantly, and simply saw him, taking him in. _I’ve been such a fool,_ he thought. The way the man was looking at him, the tenderness in his eyes, the conviction of his words. Those things weren’t new. He’d been doing them all along. Dorian had simply been too blind to see. Of course Fitzwilliam had loved him. Dorian had let Fear and Experience be his blinders. Much like a fledgling horse they had kept him safe. Kept from his view any dangers which lurked to spook him. But they had also only let him see a narrow scope. He had missed so much merely by refusing to let them down. A fledgling could not complete his training until the blinders came off. So Dorian must let them fall.

He stood, kissed Fitzwilliam on the forehead and took a step back. “I should go,” he said. A regretful smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. It had been a hard ride, a long fortnight, and an emotional evening. Fitzwilliam would need his rest, not further distraction. Dorian had done quite enough damage for one day. He turned to depart but a hand grasped his arm. He looked down, confused.

Fitzwilliam was looking up at him through long eyelashes, something unreadable on his face. “Stay with me,” his voice was hushed, imploring. Memories came back to the surface in a sudden rush: _Men leaving once satisfaction had been found. Trying to coax them into staying. Just a little longer. Always just another moment. A body to embrace. A place to feel safe. A hand to hold so it didn’t hurt. Never asking with words that wouldn’t come._

Dorian tried to clear his head, put on the charm, be in this moment. “What? Without previous planning?” He asked with a smirk. “What if someone comes to see you?”

Fitzwilliam shrugged. He didn’t let go, but the man was suddenly shy, his gaze lowered. “Then you’ll be here,” he replied quietly.

“And they’ll see me, and there will be the talking and the judgment…” Dorian said playfully. “You _do_ remember what happened with Leliana, do you not?”

“Yes,” the Inquisitor chuffed a small laugh, but still did not look up. “As I recall she set you blushing and burrowing under the coverlet. It was adorable.”

Dorian shot him a weak glare. “Be that as it may,” he began, “and I am not entirely convinced that it _is_ – we can hardly expect to be as lucky a second time.”

“What are they going to say, Dorian?” Fitzwilliam asked. “‘Oh no, the Inquisitor had someone in his rooms?’ The scandal!” Dorian chuckled. The man had a point. He was being silly. Trying to hold on to the old barriers that made him feel safe. He’d taken too long to respond. Fitzwilliam’s hand squeezed slightly. “Please, Doe,” his voice held something Dorian couldn’t place. The Inquisitor wasn’t begging, exactly, but there was something… uncertain in his tone. It set Dorian on edge. Was it something he had done? Had Dorian blundered already? What was he so worried about? Of course Dorian would come back, Fitzwilliam had to know that. Dorian always came back. And the dreams of the events at Adamant had largely abated, at least for the Inquisitor. They hadn’t spent a night apart since Dorian had burst, half naked, into his tent. Surely the man wanted a real night’s rest now that he had his own bed back… _Oh._ That was it then.

“Alright,” Dorian agreed, pouring all the emotion he could into the single word.

Fitzwilliam stood and began removing his clothing. They had both managed a quick wash, Dorian noted as he began undoing the straps of his own jacket. That was fortunate. It would be ghastly to ruin these sheets with the grime and oil of a fortnight of hard riding and battle.  Fitzwilliam disrobed entirely, and Dorian followed suit, so to speak, before climbing under the coverlet and laying on his back.

He watched as Fitzwilliam went about his appointments extinguishing candles. The light in the room dimmed, the sharp tang of smoke scented the air. When Fitz returned only the fire in the hearth and the night sky lent their light. Despite that, it was surprisingly bright in the room. Thanks for that were owed to the clear mountain sky and bright waxing moon. The Inquisitor slipped into the bed and nestled close to his side. His head rested upon the mage’s chest just below his shoulder. An arm came up, bent at the elbow, fingers resting just at mid-breast, trailing lightly, playing with the small patch of hair there. He could feel Fitzwilliam trembling with the cold his orbit around the room had imparted. The mage wrapped an arm around him, hand resting on a smooth haunch, and pulled him closer. One of Fitz’s legs came to rest between Dorian’s, entwining them. His pelvis seated comfortably against the mage’s hip.

There was something about this. Something… intimate, in a way he’d not understood until now, about sharing warmth. Something primal and instinctual. Suddenly his chest felt tight. _This,_ he thought. This was what he had been missing. This was what he had feared in staying with Fitzwilliam after their trysts. This was why he would bolt as soon as he woke. He’d never felt warm before, not truly. Not in Skyhold, not even back in Tevinter with its muggy humidity. Not like this, the way it went into his bones and made him _know_ he was safe, accepted. He dropped a kiss atop his lover’s crown.

He tried not to think about tomorrow. Or the war yet to come. Or what would happen if they managed to navigate it all in one piece. But as with most things, trying not to think only made him think more. This place was not his home. And he had meant what he said on their ride – there were things he wanted to do in Tevinter. Things he felt very sure he could achieve. He hadn’t felt that way when he’d left. He’d been grieving for his homeland, then. He’d given it up. But seeing how much Fitzwilliam had accomplished, much of it by sheer _will_ and a fair helping of stubbornness, well Dorian wanted to rise to that challenge. He wanted to be the man Fitzwilliam seemed to see in him. But that would mean leaving. And the Inquisitor had responsibilities. _Here._

He squeezed the man wrapped around him affectionately. No one knew what tomorrow was bringing. No sense is spoiling now by worrying over later – no matter _how_ big and scary and nearly looming. He let out a soft, happy, sigh.

They lay like that for ages. Dorian was unable to sleep, mind whirling back and forth, weaving plans, going over what needed to be done and how much of it, if any, he could manage. Every time he closed his eyes and begun to drift off he saw the green wound in the world and his pulse would race. Fitzwilliam, at least, had gone still in slumber. He tried not to disturb him.

The moon had moved across the sky to rest in the far window by the time he felt Fitzwilliam shifting from stillness beside him. It wasn’t anywhere near morning. Dorian would have guessed there were about six hours until the grey light of the dawn would break. Heedless of this, the man is his arms woke. He nuzzled against the mage’s chest, his fingers began stroking the skin upon which they rested. When he spoke his voice was rough with sleep, “Doe, have you slept at all?” Even as weary as the Inquisitor sounded Dorian could hear genuine concern in his words.

He dropped a kiss atop Fitzwilliam’s head. “Sadly not, Amatus,” he answered truthfully.

“The dreams?” Fitzwilliam asked. His hand was traveling now, calloused fingertips feeling out the dips in Dorian’s muscles, finding curves and tracing them.

“No,” Dorian admitted. “At least, I haven’t been asleep to properly dream. It might be more accurate to call them memories.”

He felt Fitzwilliam press a soft kiss to his chest. Then he moved up slightly, placing another on his shoulder, then to his neck where he let his teeth scratch gently. Dorian made a soft sound of appreciation. The man paused in his efforts and whispered, hot air brushed past Dorian’s ear making him shiver, “This can’t go on, Dorian.” His hand slid lower, nails scratching lightly at Dorian’s sides. The mage squirmed. “We’ll just have to make enough good memories to push out the bad.” His hand completed its journey and brushed over Dorian’s length. It was already stirring under Fitzwilliam’s attentions.

Dorian gasped softly, his hips rising, reflexively, toward the touch. He turned his head to the right and captured Fitzwilliam’s lips. It was not quite like any kiss before it. It was neither hot with need nor tempered by caution. It was… honest. He moved his lips slowly, slanting his mouth over Fitzwilliam’s to deepen the kiss, tongue slipping in, stroking slowly. Each movement seemed to take an eternity. It stretched out before him into forever. His heart _throbbed_ in his chest, as if he had over-filled it and it was now in danger of bursting. There was something stirring in him, reminiscent of his magic coming to call, but it was unbidden and somehow, _deeper_ – a more raw, visceral force. It threatened to sweep him away.

When the kiss stopped the men lay panting. Dorian could feel the Inquisitor’s heartbeat against his arm like a stampede of druffalo. “Maker, Dorian,” he gasped quietly.

“Yes?” Dorian replied. He wanted to smile, to smirk at the man, but he could only look at him intently, too swollen with emotion to manage anything else.

“You just kissed me like… _Maker,_ I don’t know. I’ve never been kissed like that before… did you feel… what _was_ that?” Fitzwilliam ask, clearly baffled.

Dorian lifted a hand and stroked the back of his fingers across Fitzwilliam’s cheek. “I wish I knew, Amatus,” he replied.

That answer seemed to satisfy as Fitzwilliam went back to work, kissing along Dorian’s collarbone. His hand closed around Dorian’s shaft, properly this time and mage moaned, rocking with the slow motion as Fitzwilliam set pace. He continued like that, pumping his fist, holding an agonizingly languid rhythm, kissing, and biting, and scratching Dorian’s bare skin wherever he could get at it. Soon the mage was a writhing bit of clay in his hands.

“Please,” Dorian managed in between gasps for air.

But Fitzwilliam, it seemed, was feeling wicked. “Yes?” He asked teasingly. “Can I do something for you?”

“Almost certainly,” Dorian quipped back with a smirk. It earned him Fitzwilliam redoubling his efforts and for a moment he was rendered speechless.

Fitzwilliam slowed again after a moment. “Sorry,” he said. “What was that? Do you want something?” Dorian nodded. “And that is?”

“I want you to take me,” Dorian whispered gruffly.

 _Not prepared for that, huh?_ Dorian mused as he felt Fitzwilliam start and turn his gaze on the mage beneath him. The ambient light in the room was nothing great, but it was more than enough to see clearly by. Fitzwilliam looked down at him, intrigued, perhaps a little surprised, but not shocked.

“Are you sure?” He asked. His hand left its post and slid up to rest on Dorian’s chest. “We’ve never done that before.”

Dorian covered the hand on his chest with his own and stroked his thumb across it. Hopefully the silver light of the moon would wash out the flush he felt creeping up his neck. He looked into Fitzwilliam’s eyes and said, “That’s because _I’ve_ never done it before,” he admitted.

 _Aaaand there’s the shock._ At another time the thought might have been amusing.

“Never?” Fitzwilliam sputtered. Dorian shook his head and continued to caress the back of Fitzwilliam’s hand with his thumb. The man merely blinked down at him.

“Shocked, I see,” Dorian said tenderly.

Fitzwilliam nodded. “Yes, I… suppose I am,” he admitted.

“Any particular reason why?” The mage inquired.

“Well,” Fitzwilliam began cautiously. “You’re a bit… experienced, and I suppose I just assumed…”

“What?” Dorian asked with a wry smirk. “That I had done everything under the sun?”

Fitzwilliam smiled sheepishly and glanced away. “Well, not _everything_.”

Dorian lifted Fitzwilliam’s hand and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles, then let go and moved to turn Fitzwilliam’s gaze back to him. Once reestablished he confessed in a low whisper, “You have to understand, Amatus. A mage’s life is all about control. Moderation. The power is given and it is my job to know how, and when, to use it. It has been my training my entire life. Control is not something a mage can ever afford to lose. And so I have never given it up.”

Fitzwilliam’s brows crinkled, leaving a vertical line where they met. “Then why now? Why not with Relenus, or … someone else?” Dorian could tell the words pained him but he wasn’t sure why, exactly.

“That’s easy,” he said, pulling Fitzwilliam’s head down until their lips brushed. “I’ve never trusted anyone enough.” He could feel the Inquisitor’s breath on his cheeks, hot and humid, like home, like air off the Waking Sea. “Until now,” he finished in a quick exhale and captured Fitzwilliam’s lips once more. The man moaned softly into it, his body melting against Dorian’s in a rather pleasant way.

But suddenly, Fitzwilliam broke the kiss. “I have to tell you something,” he said hurriedly. He continued without waiting for a response. “I’ve never done this.”

It was his turn to be surprised. Not shocked, he knew Fitzwilliam’s experience was, by choice, rather limited, but _never?_ “You haven’t?”

Fitzwilliam shook his head. “I’ve only been with you and Merlot,” he said.

Dorian found his brows going up in surprise at _that_. He’d know Fitzwilliam hadn’t been with many men but he hadn’t realized the dance card had hardly been used. But that’s not what he said, he said, “That’s fine, Amatus.”

But Fitzwilliam shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Dorian smiled. He couldn’t help it. The man was so thoughtful. “A pact, then,” he suggested tenderly. “I will talk to you, tell you if I need you to stop, if I’m in pain, if you’re doing something wrong.”

“And in turn?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“You try. For me,” Dorian replied. His voice was heavy with emotion. “I truly want to do this with you,” he continued. “To give myself to you in this way. I trust you completely.” He smiled up into Fitzwilliam’s eyes, imploring him to understand just what he was trying to say. He didn’t have the words for it yet, but later he would. He would realize this was about loving without reserve. Giving of himself even though the future was unknown. He was trying to put aside all the fears that were keeping him awake at night, even if he didn’t know it yet. Somehow, it seemed Fitzwilliam understood him. Maybe not consciously, but somewhere, intuitively, he must have understood. Because he nodded.

The Inquisitor moved from him to the other side of the bed, nearer the chest there, leaving Dorian abruptly cold and incomplete. _Well_ , _that’s rather unsettling._ He shifted uncomfortably on the bed. He’d been eager to get on with it but this was more than impatience. He wanted the warmth of Fitzwilliam back, more than he wanted anything.

He didn’t have to wait long. Fitzwilliam returned in short order, a vial of oil fisted in one hand. Dorian slid an arm under him and all but hoisted the man on top of him. Fitzwilliam’s legs landed on either side of his hips. He arched up, craning his neck and kissed Fitzwilliam soundly. The warmth flooded him again. _Is it the mark?_ Fitzwilliam writhed against him and suddenly he couldn’t be bothered with thinking on that, or anything for that matter. Dorian let his hands wander to the man’s backside squeezing, kneading, pulling him closer. Their lips parted and Dorian dropped them to Fitzwilliam’s neck and suckled the tender flesh firmly. The man cried out and _squirmed_ so delightfully that Dorian kept on, becoming lost in the action. When he ceased even the wan light could not hide the purple blooming on Fitzwilliam’s tan skin.

“Sorry,” Dorian managed to pant. Fitzwilliam shrugged, and shifted to move lower. Dorian relaxed his grip and let him, provided the man did not try to leave again. _That_ would be unacceptable.

Fitzwilliam kissed his way down Dorian’s chest and stomach. His legs went between Dorian’s encouraging him to shift them apart. The mage followed the subtle direction and was rewarded by Fitzwilliam kneeling between and lowing his head. A warm, pink tongue snaked out, licking the head of Dorian’s manhood teasingly. His cock twitched eagerly but Fitzwilliam kept on with the teasing, sliding his efforts lower, as a hand came up to cup the mage’s sack. Dorian moaned appreciatively. Generally, he was an eager man. Quick to lust and impatient. He’d become good at tempering that with Fitzwilliam but it had never been completely absent before now. There was lust, obviously, as his back arched and his hips rose toward their true desire, but this was more. He wasn’t just seeking release, not even seeking to please. This longing, this focus was something deeper…

All thoughts melted away as the moist heat of Fitzwilliam’s mouth engulfed his member, sliding down at an achingly languid pace to take his entire shaft. Once seated at the base Dorain could feel Fitzwilliam’s breath coming from his nostrils, hot bursts of air hitting his short-trimmed patch of small hairs. “Avanna,” Dorian managed thickly, “when did you learn to do…” he cut off with an abrupt cry when he felt Fitzwilliam’s throat pulse around him, swallowing. “Fasta vaaaass,” he moaned. Fitzwilliam released him then, moving his lips back up and sucking the head of his cock. The man’s breathing was heavy, labored.

He paused his efforts briefly, mouth popping free, his hand moving up to take its place. “Practiced,” he panted before going back to work. Dorian didn’t have time to ask how. Fitzwilliam redoubled his efforts and soon the mage was a wriggling, moaning, pool of desire.

Fitzwilliam pulled away entirely and Dorian found his hand reaching out for the man, grasping without his permission. He caught him at his shoulder. Fitzwilliam nuzzled his cheek against it. That was reassuring somehow. A simple gesture of affection to communicate his intention to stay. Dorian let his hand fall. “Put your knees up,” Fitzwilliam said. Dorian complied, lifting his legs so that the soles of his feet rested firmly against the bed, heels touching nearly touching his rump, legs folded. Fitzwilliam moved them, letting the knees part until they fell to the sides like the unfurling wings of a butterfly. It had the delightful effect of being both comfortable and spreading him out before the Inquisitor like a banquet.

In an uncharacteristic move of blatant dominance, Fitzwilliam leaned back and took in the sight before him. If the way his cock jumped was any indication, the man found the view pleasing. He stayed that way, tilting his head to this side and that, examining him, until Dorian could take no more. “Is your intention merely to stare at me all night?” He grumbled.

Fitzwilliam’s hand reached out and smacked his flank casually. It _smarted_. Dorian blinked. The look on Fitzwilliam’s face was so different. “Insolence will not be tolerated, Dorian,” he said authoritatively. Suddenly, Dorian was aware just how much trust this _really_ required. There was a reason Fitzwilliam was the Inquisitor, a reason he led instead of being a puppet figurehead for the cause. He _commanded_ respect.

Dorian was apologizing before he knew it was happening, “Sorry,” he said guiltily. He was rewarded with a smile and a warm hand sliding down his leg. It continued downward, past Dorian’s crotch, until his hand cupped around the cleft in his rear. His middle finger pressed closer, applying light pressure before his fingertip slid up and began making small circles against the tight ring of muscle there. Dorian quivered, his eyes squeezed shut, his head fell back, sinking into the soft down pillow.

He heard the pop of a cork, followed by the feeling of drizzled oil running down his crack. Fitzwilliam’s finger massaged the oil into the tender muscle and then pressed forward, sinking up to the knuckle. Dorian let out a puff of air. _This_ at least was not unfamiliar, even if they hadn’t indulged since that day Fitzwilliam had come upon him in the alcove, closed the curtain and taken the mage’s cock in his mouth greedily. Said cock jumped as the memory invaded his mind, adding to his pleasure. The man continued his actions moving cautiously, pressing farther inside, making Dorian tremble.

He was taking his time, to the void with him. Pumping slowly, slicking Dorian up, pushing in a second finger. And then he curled them on the out-stroke and Dorian’s entire body was consumed with hot heat that shimmered in a waved through every receptor in his body. “Ah!” He gasped, squirming. He felt Fitzwilliam’s lips press softly against the inside of his knee. His fingers continued their work, stretching as he worked them apart, making him shutter with pleasure. It was torture, but Dorian wouldn’t have had him stop for anything.

He was clay to be molded. The dusky-skinned man knelt before his spread legs with the focused attention of a master carver before a slab of marble. Dorian stared at him in awe. Such attention, such care. He’d had men try to take him before. Not by force, exactly, but without Dorian’s approval, certainly. They had not cared if he were ready to receive them, had not cared for his physical comfort or mental well-being. Fitzwilliam’s face was nothing _but_ a mask of concern, entirely focused on Dorian’s pleasure, current and future.

It felt like the Storm age had passed to the Blessed and then into Dragon when Fitzwilliam finally spoke again. His voice was graveled with desire, but tempered with caution, “Ready?” Dorian’s cock had leaked slick evidence of his readiness unto his abdomen, but that was not enough for the Inquisitor.

Dorian nodded, bracing himself, but Fitzwilliam did not try to enter him. He removed his fingers, wiping them on a towel that had been draped across the foot of the bed, then sprawled his body across Dorian’s and kissed him deeply. Dorian enjoyed the languid slide of Fitzwilliam’s tongue in his mouth, the smell of his breath, somehow still sweet despite his nap, the hot places where skin met skin. He could feel the man’s length pressed against him, hard as anything, and the wetness that let him know Fitz was just as eager. He trembled, the kiss turned him to mush. “We don’t have to,” Fitzwilliam said when their lips finally separated.

Dorian smiled up at him, hands cupping the man’s face, rough stubble scratched at his palms. “I’m yours,” the mage whispered.

Fitzwilliam’s mouth turned up at one corner, an affectionate smile, and he removed himself, kneeling between Dorian’s legs once more. He pressed the mage’s knees back, closer to Dorian’s chest as he slid a pillow under his hips. “You promise you’ll say if…”

Dorian cut him off, “Yes, Fitz. Maker, don’t make me wait any longer.” It may have come off a little short, but Dorian was anxious. He felt like a green novice and it irked him. He was no blushing virgin, he should not feel this tightness in his chest. His heart should not flutter. But he did, and it was.

It seemed Fitzwilliam took him at his word. He took his length in hand, and pressed it to the place Dorian most wanted him. He felt his breath catch, his body tense. “Doe,” he heard Fitzwilliam’s voice come low and tender, “you have to relax.” He knew he was right. Dorian cursed himself, how many times had he directed others just the same? He knew what to do. Making his body do it, however, seemed to be another matter entirely. He let out a long, slow breath, then inhaled. He continued breathing like that, concentrating on deep breaths, slowing his heart beat. Draw in for a count of four, hold for seven, out for eight. It only took a few repetitions before he felt the tension slide away.

Fitzwilliam took advantage of the situation and pressed steadily forward. Dorian tried but he couldn’t help the hiss that his exhale became when the flared head of Fitzwilliam’s cock found purchase and slid inside him. Fitzwilliam let out a guttural moan, but halted his march. The Inquisitor’s hands moved to stroke any inch of Dorian’s flesh they could reach, soothing him. “Alright?” The man was practically winded with the effort stillness cost him.

“Mhm,” Dorian managed tightly. “Just… give me a moment.” He continued his breathing and again the tension melted, though considerably more slowly than last time. Dorian was surprised by the lack of pain. He felt stretched, not exactly comfortable, in fact, it was decidedly _uncomfortable_ , but there was no _pain_. Fitzwilliam’s palms pressed firmly against the backs of his thighs, rocking him slightly. That seemed to help, some, relieving a bit of the pressure. “More,” he pleaded. For a moment he thought Fitzwilliam might object but then he leaned forward, letting the weight of his body provide a steady force. Dorian hadn’t noticed Fitzwilliam oiling his cock before they joined, but he must have, as easily as he was sliding. Either that or he had done an exceptional job preparing him. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

And then Fitzwilliam was fully seated inside him, hips pressed close. “Maker, Dorian,” he sighed. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing staggered. Dorian rocked his hips experimentally and drew a deep moan from them both. Fitzwilliam leaned over him, bracing himself on his hands, and looked down, examining his face. Looking for a clue as to his feelings, most likely. He was a _most_ considerate man.

“Move,” Dorian said with a smirk. The smile that curled Fitzwilliam’s lips was positively wicked as he complied with short, truncated thrusts. Shallow, exploratory. He let the man have his fun for a moment or two before he rocked his hips in turn, egging the Inquisitor on. Fitzwilliam moaned and his pace shifted. He was moving slightly faster, but with longer strokes. Dorian shuddered with each thrust. Fitzwilliam kissed him then moved away, kneeling upright and grasping the mage’s legs. Dorian was sorry of the loss of contact but was soon far too lost in the sensation of Fitzwilliam’s cock inside him to dwell on it.

Everything was about sensation now. The places their skin met, the sound of Fitzwilliam’s breathing, the small sounds of pleasure he was making, the hot coiling of desire that released in small waves when the Inquisitor tiled his hips just so. It was the warmth that really had Dorian enraptured. The room was cold, the blankets had been shuffled to the end of the bed, they were naked, and yet his entire body was _warm._ Not hot, not sweating with exertion, just… warm. Fitzwilliam’s mark pressed against the top of his thigh, glowing a gentle green. There was something going on here. He could almost see it. Some kind of magic being woven between them. If his mind were clearer…

But then Fitzwilliam’s hand wrapped around his cock and Dorian became a whimpering, wailing, mess of a mage. The heat grew inside him as the man stroked. Fitzwilliam’s thrusts came faster, less controlled. “Fitz,” Dorian moaned. He could feel the pressure building, it wouldn’t be long now. And if Fitzwilliam’s labored breathing and pained expression were any indication, he was holding back as well. “Kiss me,” the mage pleaded when Fitzwilliam’s touch had brought him to the precipice.  

Fitzwilliam dropped Dorian’s legs and he let them fall open to the sides so the man could lean forward, resting his weight on his hands once more. Now close enough, Dorian captured his mouth in a frenzied kiss. Even passionate as it was Dorian could feel the connection he’d felt before. It lingered in his chest even after the kiss ended. Fitzwilliam kept his head bent close, dropping short pecks on Dorian’s chest and neck occasionally. “I’ve never,” Dorian began. He was babbling, he knew, but he couldn’t seem to stop, “imagined it would be like this. I imagined it. Giving myself to you. But this is, ah,” he inhaled sharply as another wave of heat sent his body into small spasms. “I feel so, so,” he panted, grasping for words and coming up wanting.

“Complete,” Fitzwilliam said tightly.

“Yes,” Dorian sighed. “Like part of me had been missing.”

“I’m here now, Doe,” Fitzwilliam said. It came out gruff, heavy with the efforts of the night. “I’m not going anywhere. Not ever.”

Dorian wasn’t sure he was really hearing what he thought he was. Hell, Fitzwilliam probably didn’t even know what he was saying. Regardless, Dorian could not stop the words that tumbled from his lips in response, “I’m yours, Amatus.”

And then the heat that had been building and pooling became unbearable. Dorian’s hands reached up and back, gripping the curve of the Orlesian sleigh bed’s headboard. His body tightened like a spring, his eyes closed. He could hear Fitzwilliam crying out, his hips thrusting sporadically. Dorian let the heat consume him, feeling it wrap around him, connecting him to Fitzwilliam in a way he had never known another man. The magic of the moment came to a crest and Dorian’s cock spilled his essence in endless jerks of satisfaction. He’d been muttering an interminable string of words, though what they were or what langue they comprised he could not say. Pleasure and warmth washed over him as Fitzwilliam seated himself fully inside the mage and went rigid, and Dorian knew he had arrived as well, filling him. Behind his closed eyes the room pulsed green but for the first time in a week the color did not bring fear. Dorian felt at peace, satisfied, as his heart slowed, and his breathing steadied.

He knew, even as he felt Fitzwilliam soften inside him, even as his seed cooled on his chest, something had changed in this room tonight. _They_ had changed. He didn’t even open his eyes to seek out Fitzwilliam’s mouth, it was simply where it was meant to be. They kissed long and slow, in no hurry to part.

Dorian opened his eyes when Fitzwilliam pulled his head back, breaking the kiss. “I love you,” Dorian said before he could change his mind about saying it. The smile he received in return was worth every price and penance he had endured to get here.

“And I, you,” Fitzwilliam replied. He then, slowly, reluctantly, removed himself from the mage and sat back on his heels. He grabbed the towel and began wiping up the mess their lovemaking had produced.

The loss of contact was like being doused in cold water. And then, just like that, Dorian’s senses seemed to return. He could feel the chill of the air, see the green pulsing of the mark, smell smoke heavy in the air.

“What’s burning?” Dorian asked, wrinkling his nose.

Fitzwilliam looked around in worry, but a smile creped across his face when his eyes came to rest just over Dorian’s head. “Put your hands down,” he said with barely restrained humor.

Dorian lowered his hands and soot fell on his face. He blinked up at the bed. His jaw fell open, sure he was not seeing what he seemed to be seeing. He sat up and turned to look at it properly. No, his eyes were, in fact, working. There, around the curve of the headboard were two perfect impressions of his hands, _singed_ into the wood. Dorian looked down at his palms and found them black with char.

“Lucky you grabbed the bed, and not me,” Fitzwilliam ribbed as he tossed Dorian the cloth.

“Very,” Dorian replied in a hushed, unfocused voice. He went about cleaning himself almost involuntarily, his eyes looking at nothing in particular. He hadn’t lost control of his magic in nearly a decade and a half. This had been intense, yes, but it shouldn’t have prompted such a reaction. He was right, something had happened between them. Did it have something to do with the mark? Something buzzed on the edge of his senses.

“Dorian,” he heard at last. A hand was on his shoulder. He’d somehow stood, gone to the wash basin, _washed_ , and returned to the bed. His skin was lightly damp. He could remember that now, though he didn’t remember using the will to accomplish the task. Dorian turned his gaze to the Inquisitor. He looked blurry. “Are you okay?” He was asking. “Did I hurt you?” Dorian shook his head slowly. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Did you feel it,” Dorian asked. His voice felt far and away, almost like Cole’s. “When we made love. Did you feel the warmth?”

Fitzwilliam nodded a little, but looked confused. “I felt something… different? I don’t know how to describe it.”

“The mark,” Dorian said in a low voice. “It has something to do with the mark, and… my magic, maybe?”

He felt Fitzwilliam lie down, then hands pulling him, imploring him to join. He did. The Inquisitor covered them with thick blankets. They curled together, pressed as closely as they could. The warmth returned. Dorian felt the confusion slipping away. Whatever they had experienced he could not wrap his mind around it, not right now. Not warm and complete and spent as he was. His hands wandered over Fitzwilliam’s soft skin. They kissed slow and sweet, off and on. The moon crossed the sky.

“I was a fool,” Dorian confessed eventually.

Fitzwilliam’s face broke into a grin. “That so?”

“Yes,” Dorian said, feeling somewhat more like himself, “I’m afraid it’s true.”

“In which way, specifically?” The man teased.

Dorian dropped a small, reproachful kiss on his nose before answering. “I was blind. Willfully so.”

A small smile quirked the man’s lips. “Yes,” he agreed.

“I’m sorry, Amatus,” he said with a heavy heart. He meant it.

But rather than accepting the apology, Fitzwilliam ignored it all together. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what does that mean, anyway?”

Dorian smirked, affected an instructional tone and answered, “It is the masculine perfect passive participle of the Tevene verb ‘Amo’.”

“Riiight,” Fitzwilliam drawled. “Can you explain that again in somewhat less… scholarly terms?”

Dorian laughed affectionately. His hand went to the Inquisitor’s cheek, stroking it tenderly. “It means ‘loved one’, Amatus.”

Fitz blinked. “You’ve been calling me that all this time?”

Dorian nodded, as much as his head on a pillow would allow. “You see? _Willfully_ blind.”

“What will I _do_ with you, Dorian,” Fitz groaned in mock exasperation.

Dorian leered at the man, playful wickedness tugging at his lips. “Whatever you please, Amatus,” he growled softly. “Only give me a few hours to recuperate, yes?”

VVV

Sleep had come easily, at long last. The green light he had come to fear came but he did not wake. Instead he walked toward it. The area around him became a clearing. There was nothing fantastic about it. It could have been a clearing in any wood, only just beyond its edges where trees would start, lime fog obscured visibility. Dorian looked about, curious more than anything. Why was he here? There was nothing. Just soft forest floor under his feet and the low glow of fadelight.

“Welcome,” a voice said. It sounded strange. Muffled and warbling. As if speaking through a window or door. Vaguely echoing.

Dorian spun in a circle, eyes searching. In the fade something that spoke was more likely to be a demon than anything else. His guard was up.

“You’re cautious,” the odd voice continued. Dorian could not tell if it was male or female. “That is wise. But you need not fear me – we’ve met before.”

Dorian spun, eyes searching, “That’s hardly reassuring,” Dorian snarked, “most of the people I’ve met _have_ tried to kill me.”

The voice laughed. At least Dorian thought that was what the odd tinkling, like glass shards blowing in the wind, was _supposed_ to be. “You’re clever, that will serve you well.”

“If you truly mean me no harm,” Dorian said challengingly, “why not come out of hiding?”

“If I could,” the voice assured, “I would.” A shape solidified. It didn’t come into focus, not even close. It was vaguely humanoid in shape, but composed of nothing but slightly denser fade-mist. “I’m afraid in my current state this is all the more effort I can exert.”

“Terribly helpful,” Dorian drawled wryly. “So,” he continued, “to what do I owe the pleasure of this… visit?”

The figure made that tinkling sound again. It was off-putting. “Right to the target,” it said. “I’m here to warn you.”

“That’s marvelous,” Dorian groaned. “What a man always hope to hear, more warnings. As if we don’t have enough threats.”

“I apologize if I have upset you, Dorian,” the voice said sincerely. “It is not my intention. What I showed you was all the warning I could manage at the time.”

“What you showed…” and then Dorian felt like a Maker-forsaken fool. “You’re the Observer,” he said accusingly.

The top of the shadow bobbed in an approximation of a nod. “I am. I apologize if you were distressed. Communication in less direct ways is complex and I am rather… out of practice.”

“Alright,” Dorian said warily. “So what were you trying to warn me about?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say. Not as of yet. And our time here is limited. I must prioritize my messages,” the voice sounded sincere, at any rate. Odd and other-worldly, but sincere.

“Fine, have your say,” Dorian huffed and crossed his arms.

“I want to talk of the experience you had tonight,” the voice said. Dorian started. How could this Observer know about that? “You experienced something odd, did you not?”

Dorian nodded slowly. “Warmth, binding, magics moving but I did not will them,” he admitted.

“I was afraid of that,” the voice sighed. “It’s too late now, no point in being cryptic. You utilized old magics. Magics the world hasn’t seen in a score of ages.”

“I’m not powerful enough to do something like that,” Dorian said, modest for once.

“You alone? No.” The voice agreed. “But the mark. That power is ancient. And somehow, you connected to it.”

Dorian felt his eyes go wide. “Wha… what does that _mean_ , exactly?”

A buzzing sound emanated from the shadowy spirit. “It’s hard to explain to a mortal. You see magic didn’t always work the way it does now. In the long ago it was more… intuitive. That was our fault really. Without us the spirits had no one to keep them bound. They pushed their way out. Became abominations. The magic of the mark is more akin to the old ways. Your Inquisitor does not wield it with learning, or control. It is not a weapon, thrust upon him, his responsibility to conquer. It is _part_ of him. You have seen him. He utilizes it instinctually.”

Dorian remembered. He could see the whole thing playing out when he closed his eyes.

_He saw Fitzwilliam for the first time, all swagger and armor and that mark. He strode to the rift with purpose, lifted his arm, and sent a surge of green energy forward. The hole closed._

_“Fascinating,” Dorian said with genuine awe. “How does that work, exactly?”_

_Fitzwilliam shrugged. Dorian laughed. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and_ boom _! Rift Closes._

Dorian opened his eyes and nodded. “He does,” he agreed. Their night together, just before leaving for Adamant, came to mind. He had used it instinctually then, too. To make Dorian come undone. He tried to shake that one out of his head. He’d rather _not_ share such an intimate memory with a strange spirit.

“Ask him how it feels when he wields it, mage.” Dorian wanted to ask why, but the spirit continued without pause. “Before you arrived you shared a moment with the Inquisitor. He used the mark, without knowing what he was doing, naturally. And then you…” the shimmering muffled voice sounded perplexed, and intrigued. “You _tapped into_ it. Such a thing should not be possible. There is something here I am missing.” The buzzing sound happened again, but the spirit did not speak. The buzzing just kept going.

Dorian had had enough, “Right, so I used the mark’s powers somehow. I don’t see how that has hurt anything, other than the Orlesian sleigh bed, I suppose.” He rolled his eyes.

“You used the _anchor_ ,” the spirit correct. “Thusly, as one cannot change the nature of a magic, you have anchored yourself.”

Dorian felt his mouth go dry. “Sorry? What?”

“You and the Inquisitor,” the spirit replied absently, as if it were not only obvious but also entirely _unimportant._

“Tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it means,” Dorian said slowly. He realized he was walking _toward_ the creepy person-shaped cloud of coalesced mist. He stopped a few paces away.

The spirit quirked its – head – to the side. “You bonded,” it said. Dorian’s eyes widened, his mouth dropped, he rubbed the back of his neck and spun in a circle. Speechless. “I don’t understand,” the spirit commented. “You seem distressed.”

“What do you _mean_ bonded?” Dorian shouted in a panic, whirling on the cloud-spirit.

“You are joined?” It attempted. “I apologize, none of the modern words mean precisely what this means. It is difficult to interpret. If broken into modern units you could get an approximation. However, Lenen'hima'sa has an inherent meaning beyond the words.” The spirit sighed. “But that’s lost now. We haven’t seen such a thing since the fall.”

Dorian was staring. He knew. He didn’t care. All he could think was that this spirit was trying to drive him mad. “Look, could you, _perhaps,_ give me a straight answer?” Dorian growled. The shadow rippled.

“It’s complicated, as I said,” it replied, sounding somewhat irked. “And we’re running out of time. We’ll have to pick this up later, when I have amassed more influence. I need to warn you,” the sound of the odd spirit voice was fading, sounding more muted, as if trying to speak thought a thicker obstacle.

“Warn me?” Dorian shouted, though he wasn’t sure it would do any good. “Warn me of what, spirit? Who _are_ you?”

“A… a friend. One among your number is not who they pretend to be,” the spirit’s voice was very far away. He could hardly make it out now. “Use caution.”

The fade dissipated. Dorian slipped into the dark sleep of the exhausted.

 

 

AN: This is the single longest chapter coming in at a WHOPPING 10206 words. Enchant is a terrible influence.

Anyway, I wanted to update you all on some things.

Firstly, I am going to be out of town from Thursday evening until Sunday night. In a place with no phone or internet access. This means I will not be able to see reviews or comments or messages during that time. I would, of course, be absolutely delighted to come home to a virtual slew of messages. I want impressions, theories, mindless squeeing. I want it all. You guys tend to be quiet. Let loose.

Secondly, I am starting some work training this week and will be becoming much busier. I am NOT abandoning Birthrights. I am committed to seeing this through. However, updates may be coming at a more regular once a week pace. I might even hit more than a week before chapter 17 goes up because this chapter was basically 2.5 normal ones. I hope it was worth it.

I’m not going to beg for reviews but they _do_ keep me motivated to write write write, so the more I get the faster I’ll go, likely. I’ll pull the words out with pliers for you all if I have to. But it works better if I hear from you guys too.

So that’s it.

Love, love, love.


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 17

Dorian was awake.

That was the first thing he was conscious of. His eyes did not blink open. He did not stretch. He was just suddenly _aware._ He lay there taking in sensations. The whisper of snow on the glass windows. Wind whistling through cracks and panes. The bed was warm but compared to Fitzwilliam pressed against his back, arm draped over his hip, breath puffing softly across his neck, it was nothing. That warmth permeated every space in his body. It filled him. It left room for nothing else. He chuckled a little with that thought. _Well, maybe room for_ something _else._ The previous night flooded his senses and his body quaked, a gentle tremor passing through. It had been so… intimate.

Behind him Fitzwilliam began shifting. His toes stretched, his fingers spread, then found purchase on Dorian’s bare skin and pulled him closer. His nose found its way to Dorian’s neck and nuzzled. A small kiss followed.

“I half expected you to be gone when I woke,” Fitzwilliam said. His voice was rough from hours of disuse. Dorian still hadn’t opened his eyes, but he smiled, brought his hand to Fitzwilliam’s and laced their fingers together.

“It’s still early,” he quipped, lifting the Inquisitor’s hand to his lips and kissing it. “I could slip out.”

He felt Fitzwilliam laugh, jostling them both a little. “It is most decidedly _not_ early, Doe,” he said.

Dorian opened his eyes and found he was squinting them shut again, the light far brighter than he had anticipated despite the snow that fell heavily. It was probably near ninth bell. It seemed snow had piled outside the windows too. “Maker, what a storm,” he said in awe. “How did we sleep through this?”

“I’d like to say it was because our activities last night wore us out,” Fitzwilliam chuckled. “But I rather think it was a fortnight of travel and battle.”

Dorian rolled to face the man whose bed he shared. “Well, there _was_ a fair bit of riding those nights too,” he smirked. Fitzwilliam’s hand came up and swatted him on his backside playfully.

“Yes, that too,” he grinned.

“Why has no one come to assault you yet,” Dorian asked, entwining their hands again.

“I gave orders last night. Everyone is to be given the day and tomorrow. Well, everyone that can be spared. The rest will work in short shifts,” Fitz explained.

Dorian furrowed his brow. “That’s all very generous and all,” he said, “but _why_ , exactly?”

It was the Inquisitor’s turn to look confused. “Winterfest?” He replied.

“That’s weeks off,” Dorian began but his voice trailed to an end.

“It was when we left, yes,” Fitzwilliam said with a smile. “ _Now_ it’s tomorrow.” Dorian’s wide eyes looked away. “Andraste, Doe, you forgot didn’t you?” Dorian could hear the amusement there.

“Well,” he said, somewhat defensively, “I have been _quite_ busy you know. Besides, I haven’t any family here, and no money with which I might acquire gifts, so I wasn’t really planning ahead, no. I think it’s only reasonable that I forgot.” He was about to go on about food and excess and gods to kill and priorities but Fitzwilliam kissed him. The mage could feel the smile on the man’s lips.

“You don’t have to get me anything,” he said as soon as they parted. “Really. Last night I got more than... It was all the gift I need.”

Dorian opened his mouth to argue but, in a rare moment of intelligence, decided against it. “So what do we do today, then?”

A small frown crossed the Inquisitor’s face. “Sadly, I do have some business I need to see to today.”

Dorian sighed. It wasn’t surprising, but it was a tad disappointing. “No rest for the… possibly holy?”

Fitzwilliam chuffed a small laugh. “That’s one way to put it. But can’t see it taking too terribly long. I should imagine I’ll be back by supper.”

“And what are these secret plans, Inquisitor?” Dorian asked teasingly. He rocked back slightly as the man pushed his shoulder.

“They aren’t secret. I have to see Harrit about a project I commissioned a while back. And Dagna has been asking to meet with me since before we left about some experiment she wants approval on,” Fitz finished with a smile. “Nothing too fantastic.”

…

Dorian’s gaze was locked on the inner door at the top of the stairs. Fitzwilliam had fallen from view during his decent, though he’d left the door open and the mage could hear the shuffle of his supple boots on the stone stairs. He listened intently until that too faded. Briefly, it was replaced by chatter from the hall. Then there was silence. He’d closed the outer door. A huff of air he hadn’t known he was holding was exhaled in one large _woosh_. “How could I forget Winterfest?” He muttered to himself. He lay, naked, in the Inquisitor’s bed, _alone_ in his rooms, after confessing his love. And yet, somehow, he had completely forgotten to get the man a gift. “Not that I can remedy it now,” he said to the empty room, groaning as he sat up and rubbed his face. _Not a sovereign to my name._

Dorian swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He winced slightly, a bit sore from the previous evening. What he wouldn’t give to lure Fitzwilliam back to bed with some oil for a good rub down. Now that would be a lovely way to spend the evening…

A slow grin spread across Dorian’s face. That _did_ sound like a lovely way to spend the evening.

He stood and hurriedly began to dress. It had come on him all at once: He would make his way to his rooms and make himself presentable. Then he had a spy mistress to see.

VVV

Fitzwilliam had only walked half the width of the hall and already he was regretting leaving Dorian back in their rooms. He stopped in his tracks. _Our rooms?_ He shook his head and rubbed his hands together. He couldn’t shake this chill. It was making him distracted. He briefly considered stopping by the fire but Varric was camped there and he didn’t have time to get into the dwarf’s many “theories”. Not today. Today he had a mission. Well, mission _s._ He steeled his spine and continued on his path to the door on the far side of the hall. He lifted the latch and pushed the entrance to the undercroft open. When it fell closed with a _click_ he shivered. Maker’s blushing butt cheeks, it was even colder in here. Of course the undercroft was sort of _missing_ a wall. So it would be, with this storm in full swing.

He descended stone stairs that might as well have been solid ice for all the good his thin boots did, and swept his gaze around the room. Both Harrit and Dagna were there, surprisingly. Given the two-day break he thought he’d have to track them down.

“Inquisitor,” Harrit’s gruff voice called across the room. He’d been spotted. Dagna glanced his way too, as he walked over to meet the grizzled smith, but she waited patiently.

“Harrit,” Fitzwilliam greeted him respectfully. “How’s it going?”

“Jus’ fine, Inquisitor,” he said. His voice was always so rough. “I have that project you asked me to do. It’s all but done.”

Fitz smiled. “That’s great news,” he said with genuine excitement. “Can I see?”

“’Course,” the smith replied. He led him to the corner where a rack held completed projects.

He inspected in for a few minutes. It was a beautiful piece, truly a masterwork but it wasn’t quite right. Something in the fabric. After several moments of discussion the settled on blue.

“It’ll be done by tomorrow morning, your worship,” Harrit informed him.

“You’re entitled to the break too, Harrit,” he said earnestly. “Really, you don’t need to spend your holiday in here.”

Harrit shrugged. “Family isn’t here. No other plans. Happy to do it, Inquisitor.” He seemed perfectly sincere. With no family for the celebrations Harrit might actually be happier keeping busy.

Fitzwilliam clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you,” he said as openly as possible. “It’s magnificent.”

Harrit cleared his throat uncomfortably. He may even have been blushing, but Fitzwilliam didn’t stay near to find out. He didn’t want to embarrass the man. Instead he walked over to Dagna.

“And what do _you_ have for me, dear woman?” He asked charmingly.

The dwarf _did_ blush but she delved right into her theories and concepts and requisitions. He may even have followed half of it. He had to admit the ideas were intriguing. He was going to be here longer than he intended, however, as he was requiring several lessons in rune work, enchanting, and magical laws and theory.

He moved toward the hearth and let Dagna ramble.

VVV

Dorian approached the door to his rooms, ready to depart and make his way to the tower. He was washed and dressed, looking positively composed, if he did say so himself. And he _did_. So the little high-pitched shriek he made when the door swung open and he was met by a huge hat and goofy smile may have seemed slightly incongruous. He cleared his throat and tried to compose himself. “Cole,” he said warmly.

“That was an impressive display, Sparkler,” Varric’s amused tone floated up to him. Cole moved to the left and revealed the dwarf. He was smirking. “So _manly_.”

Dorian scowled.

“We came to see you, Dorian,” Cole said excitedly. The mage tried very hard to suppress the smile that threatened to take over his face at seeing the boy so unabashedly happy. It was too rare for one who felt other’s pain so keenly.

“That so?” He asked, choosing to ignore the dwarf’s barb.

Cole nodded vigorously as Varric spoke up. “The kid seems to think something’s changed between you and Prickles. Any comment on that?”

Dorian blushed. He couldn’t help it. He _tried_ , Maker, he tried. But it crept up, through the perpetual chill, to warm his cheeks. Cole bounced happily, silly grin on his face. Varric let out a loud “Oh _ho_ ,” and clapped him on the shoulder genially. “Details, man. _Details_.”

Dorian shrugged the hand off awkwardly. “There’s nothing to say,” he said emphatically.

“Why are you uncomfortable?” Cole asked with the innocent curiosity of a child. “I can see the place where the pain was – like an old scar. It doesn’t make sense Dorian.”

He sighed. Varric knew what he was doing, but Cole was just genuinely happy for him. And he was being a twat. “It’s just private,” he said gently. “And Varric is going to want me to… _dish_.” He forced the word out like a particularly bitter potion.

“Damn right, I am,” Varric said as he drew out a small pad of paper. It was followed by a small bit of metal with a fine tip. Some mechanical monstrosity Bianca had gifted him, Dorian had learnt one night over drinks and cards. “So, after the fight in the library…” he asked leadingly as he turned to a blank page and pressed the tip to it. A small black dot appeared at the place where they connected.

Dorian rubbed his face with a groan. “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it in private. I need to get some things done before Fitzwilliam completes his errands. So, if you help, I’ll…talk. _Some_ ,” he added hurriedly.

Cole’s eyes were wide and shinning with joy. Varric looked hungry.

“Deal,” the dwarf said.

 _Why do I feel like I made a deal with a demon?_ “Very well. I need to go see Leliana. In the meantime I’ll need you to gather some items,” Dorian explained.  

Varric scribbled as the mage dictated a list then nodded and said, “We’ll meet you just outside the entrance to Skyhold in an hour.”

“An hour?” Dorian asked with genuine surprise. “So fast?”

“I know people,” was all Varric said before he grabbed Cole’s sleeve and pulled him down the hall.

Dorian hurried to the rookery.

He found Leliana sitting at her desk. It seemed the other clerks had taken the Inquisitor’s offer of time off. Not Leliana. She was still the mistress of spies, after all, and there was no rest for the extremely wicked. Without looking up she greeted him as he approached. “What can I do for you Dorian?”

He could hear the smile in her voice. _Maker_ , _are there_ no _secrets in this place?_ If she knew, and he was all but certain she did, there was no point in being discreet. “I forgot about Winterfest,” he said simply.

She looked up sharply, clearly not expecting him to just come out with the information. She blinked and her smile spread wide. “And so you don’t have a gift for the Inquisitor?” Her soft Orlesian drawl did not cover her amusement.

“Well,” he said as he looked around the room casually. “I have a plan, you see, but having forgot, I might need a little assistance to pull it off.”

“Don’t you have Varric and Cole helping already?” She asked with a straight face.

Dorian’s neck snapped to look at her with speed he wouldn’t have believed. “H-how did you… that was right before I came here…” he sputtered.

Her eyes sparkled and she let out a genuine laugh of glee. “A lady never reveals her secrets, Dorian,” she managed after a moment.

“Be that as it may,” he sighed, resigned. “There are some things I need that they cannot get their hands on. You,” he said, voice syrupy, “as you have proven over and over again, can get _anything_.”

He thought he saw a flush climbing her neck, but it was hard to tell under that hood. “Oh, Master Pavus,” she said in a decidedly _girlish_ voice, “flattery will get you _everything_. Tell me what you need from me.”

And he did.

VVV

Fitzwilliam climbed the stair to his room. His head was full of all the things Dagna had told him. How one might warp physical space and manipulate time. He was quite wary at first, considering the ordeal with Alexius but she was very sure. He’d agreed to sign her requisition forms and ask Dorian for a recommendation for a mage who might be well-suited to the work. He’d also agreed to return Alexius to Skyhold. His involvement would have to be carefully guarded. The man could not be trusted with too many pieces of the theory. But he would be invaluable.

He opened the door to his room. The light shining in confirmed it was still early, he had perhaps three hours until dark. Sadly, a quick inspection revealed his quarters to be empty. He didn’t know what he had been expecting. Dorian was hardly going to stay in his bed all day. Unbidden, the memory of Dorian laying there that morning filled his head. It had felt very nice to see. He shivered. The fire was out. Not that it mattered, he was off to find Dorian.

When he turned to leave he noticed a paper tacked to the inside of the door, attached with a thin steel nail. He moved to it, pulling it down gently. The paper tore, the nail stayed fast. He unfolded it and there in the elegant swoop of Dorian’s handwriting was a short message.

_Amatus,_

_Sitting with Varric at the fire. Come join us._

_Dress warmly._

_~Doe_

His brow wrinkled in confusion but he wasn’t about to waste time. He crossed the room. The note landed upon the desk with a gentle swoosh. He traded out his flexible leather boots for the heavier ones which were made to match his armor. He briefly considered suiting up completely but surely Dorian would have said if he meant to lead them into danger. He did slip the daggers into their sheaths inside his boots, however. He wasn’t comfortable going about entirely unarmed. A heavy cloak completed the effort and he made for the hall.

He approached where Dorian, Varric, and Cole sat around the hearth toward the hall exit. They all seemed happy enough, chatting, laughing. The mage looked very pleased. A heavy cloak rested over the back of the chair Dorian sat at. Apparently they were going to go somewhere.

“This looks vaguely conspiratorial,” he said to the group when he arrived. He was lighthearted, amused. Dorian and Varric turned to face him, smiles all around, and lifted mugs in salute. Cole smiled softly, but was not drinking. That was probably for the best.

“Ah there he is,” Dorian said, standing. He placed his mug down and reached for his cloak, draping it over his shoulders. Fitzwilliam was only now noticing that it had seen better days. It was warm enough, but after the hard rides to Adamant it was looking a bit worn. With the coldest part of winter still ahead, Fitzwilliam reflected that Dorian would need something better. Nothing grand, the mage wouldn’t accept a lavish gift, but well-made at least.

“Where are you rushing off to,” Varric asked jovially. “Have a drink with us.”

Fitz saw Dorian scowl. “We will do no such thing,” he said firmly. “You’ve had your fill.”

“Varric doesn’t seem drunk to me,” Fitzwilliam smirked.

“Not his fill of _drink_ ,” the mage grumbled.

“C’mon Prickles,” Varric tried again. “One drink.”

“It seems like Dorian has plans,” he said slowly. “And I told you not to call me that. I am _not_ prickly. I have a very affable personality.”

“I’ll say,” Dorian drawled teasingly.

“I dunno, Inquisitor,” the dwarf continued. “You won’t catch _me_ kissing those porcupine quill cheeks.” He then _winked_ , and sipped from his mug.

Fitzwilliam flushed looking away. “I take back what I said about you not having had too much to drink,” he mumbled.

Dorian closed the distance between them and dropped a kiss on Fitzwilliam’s cheek before he knew what was happening. He turned his gaze on the dwarf. “I’d be more afraid of his barbed wit, were I you, Varric.”

Varric laughed heartily, lifting his mug in acknowledgement. “See? Prickles. It works on many levels.” Fitz opened his mouth to object again but Varric lifted his free hand and poked himself in the chest. “Storyteller,” he said emphatically. “Don’t argue.”

“Fine,” Fitz huffed with a hidden smile. It was then he heard the whispering. Apparently, the couple of nobles closest to them had seen Dorian’s act of affection. He ignored them. The rumors that already existed were far more scandalous.

“Shall we?” Dorian asked with a gallant gesture toward the exit. Fitzwilliam nodded and started toward it.

“Have fun,” Cole’s dreamy voice called after them, a giggle in his voice.

VVV

They entered the wood just outside Skyhold. The weather had cleared but the snow had fallen heavily. Thankfully, it seemed someone had tramped down a path already, making it easier to traverse. When they were out of sight of the walls Dorian pulled them to a stop.

“So,” Fitzwilliam said, “what’s this all about?”

Dorian’s lips curled into a smile as he pressed closer. “It’s a surprise,” he said whilst closing the gap. It was a proper kiss. Not like that peck in the hall. Fitzwilliam could fell it extending through his entire body, warming him to his toes. When they parted their breath misted in the cold air. “Come along,” Dorian said, turning away. “We’re nearly there.”

A bit of walking and Fitzwilliam soon found himself in a familiar clearing near the hot spring. He thought they might be heading to it, so he stopped but Dorian motioned for him to keep going. He followed, eventually noticing the cave that loomed up ahead. Its entrance shimmered purple. The mage approached the barrier and muttered something. The glittering wall fell and Fitz entered without prompting. Dorian followed, muttered again, and the barrier returned.

The first thing the Inquisitor noticed about the cave was how warm it was. He shucked off the cloak and turned to find Dorian doing the same. “Follow me,” the mage said, walking deeper into the cave. The walk was short, and it only got warmer the farther in they went. Dorian led him to the right. When he rounded the turn he stopped in his tracks.

The large opening here had been… decorated. Candles in recesses in the walls, a nest of mats and blankets and pillows on the ground. A closed chest rested near it. Two brass bowls rested next to that. There was a pelt on the floor littered with cheese and wine and bread and meat. Actual cups and plates off to the side. Fitz felt Dorian’s touch soft on his chin, pushing his gaping mouth closed.

“What’s all this?” He finally managed.

“The surprise, Amatus,” Dorian replied, voice silky. “Hungry?” The sound of the word, the implication that positively dripped from the mage’s lips, sent a shiver down his spine. He nodded silently and allowed himself to be guided to the pelt. Dorian removed his boots and sat on the fur. Fitzwilliam followed suit. He removed his daggers and put them aside then went about unstrapping his high, heavy boots before taking his place near the mage.

They ate supper, in a candle-lit cavern, as if it were where they ate every evening. It actually smelled quite good in the cave, earthy but also sweet somehow – like spring. A little pocket of spring in the middle of winter. Conversation wandered aimlessly, talking of this and that, laughing, and drinking. For first time since Fitzwilliam received the mark he felt normal. Maybe longer. Maybe since before Syrah died. For the moment there was no rift in the sky, no lavish, empty, lonely room to remind him he was the Inquisitor, no one hounding him to make decisions. The only reminder – the mark on his hand. That had started to feel natural now. A part of him. It marveled him to think of the days before it had been there. He felt as if he had always been meant for it. He wasn’t sure about fate, or being chosen by the Maker, but he felt, in his bones, that he was where he was supposed to be, with the people he needed to be with, where he could to the most good. He pushed the cost of that service from his mind, just for one night.

“How’s it so warm in here?” Fitzwilliam asked as he sipped the last of his wine from a modest cup. Dinner had been simple and lovely but the question had been brewing as he ate. At first he’d assumed he was merely feeling the natural difference from the outside. That it only felt warmer because it was so cold in the open wilds. He figured once he had become used to the temperature in here it would start to feel colder, but it had stayed warm. So warm he was thinking of sheading his jacket.

Dorian didn’t answer at first, smirking behind his wine cup. “Well,” he said slowly, “caves do tend to be warmer in the winter, Fitz.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not _this_ warm, Doe,” he sighed playfully.

Dorian lowered the glass with a small chuckle. “Fair enough,” he said. “You’ve found me out. I did it.”

Fitzwilliam furrowed his brow. “I don’t see a brazier,” he said quizzically.

Dorian put a hand to his chest and affected a mask of affront. “A _brazier_ , Fitzwilliam? How common! What do you take me for?”

He couldn’t help but laugh affectionately. “I do apologize,” he said as sincerely as he could muster, bowing his head respectfully. “Please enlighten me, Master Pavus.”

“You know I hate when you call me that,” Dorian grumbled. “Makes me feel like I’m back in Tevinter, surrounded by Magisters…”

The Inquisitor pulled one side of his mouth up in a sympathetic smile. It hurt to know the conflict that still stormed in the mage. The desire and love for his homeland, and the hatred of what it had become. Being glad to be rid of it and feeling guilty for not fighting for it. “I shall try to avoid it in the future, serah.”

It was Dorian’s turn to look confused. “That’s a new one,” he said.

Fitz thought about it for a moment. He hadn’t meant to say it, it had just slipped out. But it felt right. Natural. “It’s an address we use in the Free Marches,” he said casually. “It’s how one addresses an equal.”

He watched with fondness as Dorian’s face softened. The smile he gave Fitzwilliam reminded him of when they had gone to seen Magister Pavus, just as he had after Fitz had answered his question: “Maker knows what you think of me now, after that whole display”. He could still see it in his head when he closed his eyes – all awe and tenderness. The mage leaned across the short distance separating them and dropped a whispering kiss upon his lips. When they parted it looked like Dorian wanted to say something, but instead he shook his head and stood, offering his hand.

Fitzwilliam took it and allowed the mage to pull him upright. Dorian said nothing as his fingers moved to the buckles of the Inquisitor’s jacket. Slowly, silently, he unclasped them, slid the jacket from his shoulders and set it aside. “You didn’t answer my question,” Fitz asked, voice tight with anticipation. Dorian’s careful actions were exciting him, but he tried not to get too distracted.

“Why it’s so warm?” Dorian asked, moving his hands to the linen undershirt and pulling it from where it was tucked into his trousers.  Fitz nodded. “I heated the rock,” he said casually. His fingers griped the hem of the shirt and pulled up. Fitz lifted his arms and felt the slide of the soft fabric as it slid over his head.

“How?” Fitzwilliam said with a heavy swallow as Dorian knelt and began unlacing his trousers.

“With my hands,” he said mischievously. He slipped his fingers into the top of the breeches and pulled. They came down easily, bringing the silky small clothes with them. He felt the whisper of the mage’s mustache on his thigh as Dorian pressed a playful peck to the skin there.

“Informative,” Fitzwilliam sighed, not quite able to keep the shiver out of his voice.

“Do you really want a lesson in magic theory right now, Amatus?” Dorian asked. Fitzwilliam gripped Dorian’s shoulder, steading himself as the mage guided the fabric down. He freed the Inquisitor one trousercuff at a time before setting the garment aside. Fitzwilliam shook his head as Dorian looked up at him. Dorian smirked, glancing at the evidence of Fitz’s arousal and said, “I thought not,” before straightening to his full height and discarding his own adornments. He was somewhat less meticulous now, pulling at the cloth and disrobing quickly.

Once naked, Dorian took his hand. He had expected him to lead them to the bed, or rather, the pile of blankets that served as one, but he did not. Dorian walked in the opposite direction, back to the entrance. They stood still before the purple shimmer for a moment as Dorian raised his hand to it and turned to look at Fitzwilliam. Wickedness positively twinkled in his eyes.

He muttered something and the barrier fell, the cold rushing in as a solid wall and sending Fitzwilliam’s skin pebbling into gooseflesh. He would have yelled at the mage had the coldness not hit his lungs and left him gasping. Dorian grinned, dropped his hold on Fitzwilliam’s hand, and shouted “Run!” before taking off, full speed, and _naked_ , into the snow swept forest.

Fitz had a moment to consider whether the man had gone completely mad before the same madness descended upon him and he bolted into the cold. As soon as he’d cleared the cave the barrier came back up, but he didn’t have time to dwell on that. It was cold as anything out here, and he’d lost sight of Dorian. Now he literally followed in Dorian’s footsteps, stepping where he had stepped, letting them guide him. They vanished when the clearing opened from snow-covered detritus into yielding, springy moss. It was comparatively warm on his frozen feet. He panted slightly and shot his gaze about, searching.

Something cold hit him in his side and he cried out, spinning, battle instincts rearing up. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he was safe, but near a year of constant danger had honed his skills. He used the spin to take in as much information about the area as possible. Another hit struck his chest, exploding into a cloud of snow and falling around him. “What in the void,” he shouted. He was laughing despite himself. Another ball of snow flew toward him, but now that he knew from whence they came he dodged, leaned low, and charged toward the source. As he ran he scooped up a bit of snow from the edges of the clearing and shaped it into ammunition. He cleared a small rise and found himself looking down at a brazenly naked mage. Dorian tossed a snowball up and down in one hand. His body language looked casual, but his eyes were shinning with impish intent. Behind him Fitzwilliam could see the hot spring, an abundance of Elfroot plants sprouting up around it.

Fitzwilliam straightened from his crouch, palming the ball of snow, and put his free hand up in an attempt to placate. He approached the decline slowly. “Now now,” he said cautiously, “let’s not be hasty, Dorian.” The mage continued to toss the sphere. For a moment he looked like he might drop it, but then his eyes narrowed playfully and he let it loose. Close as he’d gotten it was a challenge for Fitzwilliam to dodge, but all that training wasn’t for nothing. It was to save his life in situations just like this one. _Well, not_ just _like this one,_ he managed to laugh at himself. He spun to the side, dodging, and then let fly his own bundle of snow. He completed the rotation in time to see Dorian staring, open-mouthed, at his own chest. A wet, white circle clung there.

For a moment there was silence and then Dorian let out a high-pitched, “Ahhhhhh,” and scrambled into the water. He lowered himself until he was submerged to his neck and shivered. Fitz laughed heartily but did not waste time either. He sat on the bank and eased himself in. It was hotter than he had thought it would be and his feet were still cold. It clashed with the heat in the pool, sending signals of discomfort to his brain. Still, once he had slid fully in he was happy for the trip. He moved toward the mage. Dorian scowled at him. “That was very cold, Amatus,” he said, teeth _actually_ chattering. The Inquisitor smiled affectionately and moved through the water to grasp the mage from behind.

“You started it,” he whispered as pulled Dorian’s skin flush with his and dropped a kiss onto his neck.

Dorian leaned back, resting his head just below and to the side of Fitzwilliam’s. “I suppose you’re right,” he sighed happily.

As they let the water warm them the Inquisitor let his gaze wander. There really was an inordinate amount of elfroot in the area. He felt something about that tugging at the back of his mind but before he could remember that Cole had mentioned Dorian’s involvement in the anomaly his eyes spotted a box resting on the mossy ground just outside the spring. “What’s in there,” he asked. Dorian opened his eyes and followed where Fitz’s finger pointed.

“More surprises,” he said with a grin. Dorian disentangled himself from the Inquisitor and moved toward the box. Curious, Fitzwilliam followed and tried to peek inside. Dorian must have caught him because the lid closed sharply. “Tsk tsk,” he made the sound and waggled his finger. “You’ll ruin it.” His hands came to rest on the Inquisitor’s shoulders and he guided him to a smooth rock ledge which jutted out beneath the water, and a fair ways _into_ it, so he wasn’t actually that close to the box or the bank. The mage applied light pressure to his shoulders until he sat – facing _away_ from the box. The water came mid-way up his chest.

With him sitting like this and Dorian standing it did provide him with an advantage. And before the mage could move away Fitzwilliam’s fingertips gipped his hips, pulling him closer. He began dropping small kisses across Dorian’s stomach. The effect of his efforts was immediate and obvious – Dorian was clearly struggling to control himself. He wiggled and sighed in protest, his hands came up to pull Fitz’s away and slick as they were he managed it.

“I will not be distracted,” he said sternly, followed closely by a wink. Then he moved back to the edge of the pool. The Inquisitor could hear things shuffling and then the sloshing of water as Dorian made his way back. “Dunk,” he said gently. Fitz submerged himself, then came back up wiping the water out of his eyes. He felt Dorian’s hand pressing something to his hair and then the mage started rubbing.

“You’re washing my hair!?” Fitz cried out.

Dorian chuckled. “Yes,” he said, continuing to lather. “I acquired your soap. Well, I had someone acquire it for me. That sort of work is beneath me, you know.”

Fitzwilliam snorted. “Beneath you,” he said with levity, “or _beyond_ you, serah?” Dorian’s fingers sunk into his locks, pulling in gentle reprimand, and then returned to carding through them, massaging his scalp. An involuntary sound of appreciation rumbled from the Inquisitor’s chest.

“Oh,” Dorian drawled. “Was that for the pull or the washing?” Fitzwilliam moaned again in response, leaning into the touch. “Interesting.”

Fitzwilliam lost track of time. Dorian moved from his hair to his body washing what was not in the water, then making him stand upon the ledge so he might find more skin to clean. He wasn’t businesslike, exactly, but he was certainly focused. None of Fitzwilliam’s efforts to escalate were successful. Eventually, Dorian leaned him back and rinsed his hair and body before returning to the box and pulling out a different soap. He then set about washing his own hair. The Inquisitor floated about in the pool enjoying the view as Dorian lathered, dunked, and came up water flinging wildly. Then he began to wash himself. It was very distracting and made the steamy air smell of citrus and spice. He had made very strong associations with that smell and it was setting his loins to stirring once more.

Finally it seemed the mage was done, and he replaced the items within the box before returning to the Inquisitor’s side. “Better,” he asked the mage.

“Much,” Dorian sighed and pulled him close. Their lips met but it was much to tender for Fitzwilliam. He was longing to feel more of Dorian against him, more passion. So he slanted his mouth over his and deepened the kiss. He was rewarded with a heavy moan. It seemed to be working, so he let his hands wander over the curves and dips of Dorian’s bare body, skin warm and wet in the water. No sooner had he brushed against Dorian’s length, confirming he too had been affected by their actions, then the mage broke the kiss and pulled away.

“Patience, Amatus,” Dorian chuckled when Fitzwilliam huffed.

The Inquisitor rolled his eyes. “I see you intend to tease me all day,” he whined. Dorian merely smiled and hoisted himself out of the water and onto the bank.

“Come,” he said, offering his hand. “We’ve got a cold run ahead of us.”

Fitzwilliam made a noise of protest that sounded oddly like a whimper, but was definitely _not,_ and reluctantly accepted the hand that pulled him from the warm spring into the cold air of a winter forest. He clambered onto the spongy moss landing. There was no snow here but the air was still frigid. He shivered, then he looked at Dorian, in all his naked, wet, glory – hair slicked back, the waning sunlight falling dappled through the trees, drawing designs on his skin – and he shivered in a very different way. Dorian reached out to him, entangling their fingers. The mage’s body language had shifted drastically. Where just a moment ago it had read relaxation and contentment it now exhibited an abundance of coiled muscle, ready to spring. It would have made him nervous but when his eyes snapped up to meet Dorian’s they displayed an unmistakable twinkle of playful trouble.

It had all happened in a second and when their eyes met the mage grinned, tugged on Fitzwilliam’s hand, and said, “Run!”  

What could he do but follow?

 

 

AN: Yes, I know this terribly late and I am awful. Apologies. I realized that this chapter was getting very long and I was only half-way through my intended points. So I decided to split it into two. I hope you enjoyed it.

 

Love!


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 18

The sun was nearly down by the time the purple barrier came up behind them. As such it was much colder. Fitzwilliam’s shivering caught Dorian’s eye and he pulled the man close, wrapping his harms around him, and rubbing quickly at the skin of his arms and back. It was simple, the magic of friction, not of the fade, but it helped and soon the mage was pulling back and cupping the Inquisitor’s cheek. “Better?” A tender smile played on his lips. Fitz nodded. “Good.” He kissed Fitzwilliam briefly then took his hand in his. “Come along.”

They walked back to the far right corner of the cave. The candles had burned lower whilst they had been gone, some had sputtered out entirely. Dorian went to the trunk by the pile of mats and blankets and removed fresh candles. He replaced the spent ones, lighting them with a flick of his fingers. Fitzwilliam stood and watched with awe. The things the mage could do, the absolute finesse of his craft. He had rarely seen a mage as skilled as Dorian. Perhaps he had _never_ seen a mage as skilled. Dorian had devoted his life to his magic. He studied, he practiced, he experimented, and he _played_. It was brilliant, it was enviable. And suddenly he realized it was dangerous. Not here so much, but in Tevinter a mage as skilled and powerful as Dorian would be a threat to be targeted. His father must have been very vigilant to ensure the mage’s safety.

He was pulled from these thoughts as Dorian completed his efforts and led him to the bedding. He positioned Fitzwilliam so the soles of his feet stayed on the rough cave floor as he sat on the furs, then he moved and retrieved one of the brass bowls. He knelt before Fitzwilliam, holding the bowl in two hands. He was quiet for a minute, eyes closed, head bowed, concentrating. Then steam began to rise off the surface of the water. Dorian set the bowl down and dipped a finger into it. “Perfect,” he said smiling. From the bowl he lifted a wet rag and rung it out. “Foot.” Fitzwilliam gave him a look of amused confusion but leaned back, shifting his weight to his hands and lifting his right leg. Dorian washed the cave dust from it, then folded Fitzwilliam’s leg back to rest the clean foot on the pelt. He rinsed the rag and did the same with the left before following suit on himself. He put the bowl aside and joined the Inquisitor on the bedding. They smiled at each other. “What now?” Fitzwilliam asked leadingly.

Dorian’s response was to lean in and kiss him deeply, _finally_ providing the man with the contact he craved. The smell of his skin where the spiced citrus soap lingered, overwhelmed his senses, invading his nostrils. His lungs pulled it in with deep gasping breaths as if he had been air-deprived until this moment. With belabored movements they shifted farther back in the bedding, Dorian stretching out across him, pressing close, hands wandering. His skin, where their bodies touched and his palms wandered, felt hot. Hot as mid-afternoon sun in the prime of summer – delicious and warming, but it neared scalding. A yearning moan escaped Fitzwilliam’s throat. He grasped at Dorian trying to pull him closer, his hips rocking, involuntarily sliding his length along the mage’s thigh. It lasted ages. Dorian tended to move things at a reasonable pace but this time he was doing nothing to hurry matters along. He continued to kiss, or nibble, or lick, but his head never dipped below Fitzwilliam’s collarbone. His hands squeezed and scratched but did not wander to the places he _really_ wanted them to be.

Dorian pulled back, panting. “Roll over,” he said, voice husky. The Inquisitor did so eagerly, anticipation causing his loins to churn like basalt. He heard Dorian get up, heard the creak of neglected hinges, the rustling and clinking of whatever was hindering Dorian’s search through the box, then the sharp crack of the closing lid. He felt the bedding shift as Dorian knelt beside him. A cork popped. He expected the familiar feel of slick fingers pressing at his entrance but for long moments there was nothing at all.

When, at last, Dorian touched him, it was not where he anticipated. The mage was rubbing small circles of hot oil on the blades below each of his shoulders. From there two fingertips trailed a leisurely path down his spine, making his skin pebble. When they reached the curve just before the rise of his backside the touch vanished. Warm fingertips ghosted over him again, this time rubbing small pools of oil on either side of the base of his spine. Air wafted over these spots as Dorian blew, gently, over each of them in reverse order. He was meticulous, slow, indulgent. Moving from the circles at the curve of his back, up the spine, to the shoulders. His flesh shuddered. It was exciting in ways Fitzwilliam would not have expected from something so simple.

The breath vanished and the Inquisitor felt oil drizzling onto the small of his back. It was so warm, as warm as the spring water in the pool had been. Was the mage heating it? Then Dorian’s large hands were on him, smoothing the oil in small circles over the hard muscles of his lower back and bottom. Once thoroughly spread Dorian began to press his palms firmly into the flesh, fingers finding the points of tension and kneading until the muscle was smooth. His hand moved to the center of his back, pressing gently against his spine. It was not the kneading pressure of before so much as it was grounding, a way to communicate Dorian was present.

Dorian’s whole body shifted, moving up to repeat the process on Fitzwilliam’s upper back, starting with a firm, grounding hand between his shoulder blades. Then he moved well-oiled palms in those same circular motions. The knots of burden were unraveling, he could feel all the worry melting out of him. It made his head light, even a little giddy. When the pressure increased a soft, unwitting, sound of pleasure escaped his mouth and he felt the hot air of Dorian’s silent laughter skitter across his bare skin.

Gradually, the mage worked his way down until his hands were kneading the round globes of Fitzwilliam’s backside. He lifted one hand to pull the man’s legs apart, then climbed over to kneel between them. He felt a thrill, knowing what would come next, his heart pounding in his chest. But once more Dorian foiled him and rested his palm at the base of his spine. His other hand rested atop before sliding up, following the length of his back to the base of his neck. He removed it completely and repeated the process over and over. Fitzwilliam felt the tautness his muscles had pulled into as they anticipated the coming action fade as Dorian continued on his course. Soon he was sighing heavily, as the mage did his work.

Dorian slid his body lower, fingers following and smoothing skin with a firm touch, to his thighs. He continued until massaging there, down his legs, completing the effect of making every muscle in Fitzwilliam’s body feel liquid, like a candle that had burned down into a pool of warm, pliable tallow. This state seemed to be what Dorian had been waiting on. His palms stayed in contact as they moved back up, and then Fitz felt one slide into the split of his ass. It didn’t feel as he expected, not the long tapers of his fingers, they were almost… blunt. The hand pressed forward making Fitzwilliam shudder as Dorian drew it down toward the ground, sliding the length of the crevice. _Knuckles_ , he thought. _His hand isn’t open._ And then thinking was off the table as Dorian pressed his knuckles soundly against the Inquisitor’s pelvic floor and _vibrated_ it. He had no idea if Dorian was casting or just shaking his hand, but either way it was _magic_. A long groan slithered out of his lungs to fill the cave, reverberating down its expanse.

“Mmm,” Dorian said in a husky voice. “Yes, Amatus, that. That is what I want to hear.” He continued the blissful action until Fitzwilliam was squirming and wriggling, then the hand opened and two fingers pressed where he so desperately wanted them. “Listen closely,” his voice came rough and lazy. “When I press in I want you to breathe out and relax around me. When I pull out, you are to breathe in and clench. Do you understand?”

It was a struggle to find the words but he managed a tight, “Yes.”

Dorian pressed his hand forward and Fitz let the air from his lungs in one even exhale. Maker, it felt amazing. Now fully inside, Dorian turned his wrist, fingers rotating, rubbing against his pelvic bone from the inside for several long minutes. It felt quite good. Not overwhelmingly stimulating but pleasurable just the same. He tried to keep his breathing even as he waited for a cue. It came when Dorian rotated his fingers back to their starting position, then he slowly pulled them out. Fitzwilliam inhaled sharply, and clenched around the fingers. He hadn’t known what to expect so when his entire body shuddered he was staggered. They repeated the process several times with no variation and soon Fitz was finding the rhythm in it. As intense as the experience was it was also soothing. Patterns had always soothed him, finding the next step, being able to predict what would come next.

He should have known it was all a ruse. Once the Inquisitor had begun moving with the motions Dorian did not let him get lost in it. Suddenly he twisted his wrist, curling his fingers on the outstroke and sending his body into nearly violent spasms. His manhood, which until now had been content to lay flaccid against his stomach, suddenly jumped to life. A few more strokes and it was leaking a mess, slicking the bedding below. The mage continued his slow torture until Fitzwilliam pleaded in little broken sobs. Only then did the fingers slid out and his other hand went back to providing soothing strokes across his backside and down his thighs. The mage waited for Fitzwilliam’s breathing to regulate before speaking, “Roll over.” He sounded oddly breathless. The Inquisitor did as asked.

“I had fully intended,” Dorian said as he leaned across Fitzwilliam, bringing their faces closer, “to massage this side too.” Fitz whimpered in protest. “But, given the circumstances I was wondering if you might prefer a note of promise?”

Fitzwilliam nodded eagerly, “Maker, yes,” he sighed as his hands pulled the mage down and captured his lips. It was exactly what he wanted. No more delaying. No more reasons, however delightful, to postpone their actions. Just them. Alone. Truly alone for the first time ever. No chance of a member of the council waking him. No prying eyes in the library. No tent village surrounding them. If he’d been more capable of rational thought at the moment he’d worry that if Coryphaeus showed up Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen would be unable to find him. But just now Dorian’s tongue was trailing its way up his neck. When his teeth took the lobe of his ear between them, breath grazing hot against his skin, he was reduced to pure sensation.

The mage lay over him, propped up by one hand, the other trailing across his side. Nails scratched none too lightly as his lips moved back down his neck, trailing sloppy kisses. Dorian shifted, pressing his lips lower, down Fitzwilliam’s chest. He could feel the soft scratch of the mustache against his skin, and the reverberation when Dorian moaned, kissing lower still. His hands landed on his hips, thumbs dipping just inside the socket. He applied light pressure and it sent Fitz’s hips bucking reflexively. The hands pressed his hips down, securing them as they struggled but the sensational friction did not let up. 

He felt Dorian’s tongue come out, lapping against his stomach. It tickled some, but the spikes of desire shooting from his hips were more than enough to keep him from laughter. What was the man doing? “You taste decadent,” Dorian sighed against his skin. He was sampling the slickness that had gathered there during the massage, Fitzwilliam realized suddenly. The knowledge made fire pool in his core.

Of course, Dorian wasn’t putting those kissable lips and talented tongue where he _really_ wanted them. He was pointedly avoiding the weeping member between then, instead focusing on cleaning the Inquisitor’s abdominals as his hands worked the spot on his hips that made him feel like electricity was surging through him. He clenched his eyes closed, hands reaching out to grip anything that wasn’t Dorian. He had no intentions of giving him anything that could be interpreted as a signal to stop. Dorian continued the torture until Fitzwilliam lost track of the passage of time. There was only the touch of the man he loved and the delightful ways his body responded to him.

The mage drew slightly back and Fitzwilliam’s hips tipped back mirroring him. Suddenly, the hot wetness of Dorian’s mouth wrapped around his length shocking his body sending him into a fit of sharp cries that faded into whimpers. He struggled to press closer but Dorian strengthened his hold, pressed down, and squeezed. There would be tiny pressure point bruises from his fingertips but that didn’t matter. Dorian laved his tongue around the thickness filling his mouth as he suckled. His actions were determined, unyielding. It was the same tunnel vision of their earlier activities. Dorian had a _plan_ and nothing Fitzwilliam could do would sway him from it. Twice the mage brought him to the edge of climax, and twice he denied. Fitzwilliam had been patient, he had been strong, he had endured, but now he was broken. “Please, Dorian,” his voice was thin and desperate. “Please.”

Dorian removed his mouth, his hand coming up to continue stimulating the almost painfully-sensitive shaft. “Yes,” he asked. Fitz couldn’t meet his gaze but he could hear the gravel in his voice. It did nothing to cover his amusement. “Tell me what you want.”

The Inquisitor felt stubbornness and shame mix in him. He shook his head.

Dorian huffed, his hand redoubling its work, his tongue snaking out hot and wet, lapping at the weeping head of his cock. Fitz whimpered. “I will do as you ask,” Dorian paused to speak. Fitzwilliam surprised himself by actually measuring the merits of this action. He’d thought he was well beyond the mental capacity for it. Just as he was starting to form cohesive thoughts Dorian spoke up. “This night is all about you, Fitz. To me that means letting me please you…” he trailed off, thumb sweeping across the tip of the Inquisitor’s member like punctuation. “But if you preferred to take me again, that would be… acceptable. Whatever _you_ wish.”

He moved up Fitzwilliam’s body. His hand freed the length it had imprisoned, and he wasn’t sure he was entirely happy with that. He felt a hand on his chin, lips on his cheek. He could feel a pull, somewhere inside him. As if there were a string tied to his heart, a direct line to Dorian’s wishes. No words were needed. His eyes fluttered open to see Dorian gazing at him adoringly. “You have but to ask, Amatus.” Dorian kissed him, slow and sweet, letting the fires he’d bee stoking non-stop die down for a moment. When they parted he could see Dorian’s smile. He looked so light, so unburdened – so completely at ease.

“Maker, I love you,” Fitzwilliam whispered. He hadn’t meant to say it and he felt the panic, piercing and thundering in his chest, almost instantly. Months of holding in the words had conditioned him. He could see, in his mind, all the things that could happen. Dorian could leave. He could ignore him. He could distract him. But none of those things happened. The mage smiled, dropping a brief kiss on his lips.

“And I you,” he replied tenderly, easily. It was mildly shocking. “Now, what do you wish of me?”

Fitzwilliam felt his heart swelling, the string there pulling him toward Dorian, needing him to be closer. To feel the warmth only he could bring. “Take me,” he sighed in a breathy gasp.

“As you wish, your worship,” Dorian chuckled.

He did not faff about. Dorian slid between Fitzwilliam’s legs, kneeling there as he reached for the oil. The Inquisitor watched Dorian apply it, gingerly, to his swollen shaft. He seemed to be having difficulty, whimpering and hissing through his teeth from his own touch. _Maker,_ Fitz realized, _he’s been in agony._ And of course he was. An entire day of Fitzwilliam advancing, teasing… and he had been so steadfast, so focused on pleasing him. So _stubborn_.

“Dorian,” he said with concern, “If you prefer we could… you don’t need to…”

The mage set the oil aside and leaned over Fitzwilliam, a predatory gaze in his eyes. “Oh no, Amatus,” his voice was heavy with lust, eyes narrowed. “It’s too late to back out now. I _will_ have you.” He captured his lips in a crushing kiss, all need and desperation, before going up on his knees and positioning himself.

One long thrust saw Fitzwilliam filled and he shuddered with sensation. Dorian filling him, pressing in like this, it always left him teetering on the edge of delirium. It was overwhelming and yet, simultaneously, not enough. Dorian tended to take his time, be gentle, and tender, and as much as Fitz appreciated the care he put into their encounters it could be frustrating. He could feel the mage’s muscles twitching with the effort stillness was costing him – even the cock buried inside him jerked.

When he did, praise the Maker, _finally_ start moving it was with long, easy strokes. It felt wonderful but the Inquisitor was feeling wicked. He wanted to drive Dorian mad with want. Push him to that delicious edge where he muttered everything that came to his mind and he _took_ him. So he came up with a plan. As the mage rocked his hips back, delicately withdrawing, Fitzwilliam exhaled slowly, letting the flesh that gripped Dorian go lax. He heard a small sound of protest drop from Dorian’s lips but the pace remained steadfast. He waited until Dorian’s hips slid forward again and then inhaled one long breath, clenching around the hot length moving inside him. Dorian only made it halfway before his control gave out and he plowed into the man. Fitzwilliam cried out sharply, back arching, pushing his lower-body upward.

“Shit,” Dorian panted, moving slowly once more.

Fitz waited patiently then repeated his action. Over and over until Dorian was hissing and swearing in Tevene. Still he held his pace. “Dorian,” he finally grumbled in frustration. “ _Move.”_

Dorian laughed softly, even looked like he might tease or argue, and he might have had he not been so far gone, if he had been as he was at the start when he was still a paragon of control, but now he was nearing mindlessness. When he resumed the gentleness was gone. He was not rough or uncaring, he was not seeking to find his pleasure and ignore Fitzwilliam’s, but now he was _determined_. His thrusts didn’t just gain speed, they gained power. Pure force pushing him up the bedding an inch at a time. Soon the mage was groaning in his ear, whispering wicked things, swearing, being so surprisingly vulgar that even with a cock in his arse Fitzwilliam could feel the blush creeping up his neck.

“So tight, so warm,” his breath was coming fast, his words punctuated with grunts of effort. “I always wanted to be fucking you like this. From the moment we met I wanted to take you, make you mine, hear my name pulled from your lips as I filled you.” His words faltered for a moment, the rhythm he had been keeping broke time as he started to become overwhelmed.

“Dorian,” Fitz sighed breathily. It drove him mad when Dorian talked whilst they rutted. The sound of it, the deep richness, the heady desire, so unlike the affected show he put on in public. This was what Dorian sounded like when laid bare. It made him shiver violently.

“Yes,” the mage hissed through grit teeth. “Just like that. I _dreamed_ of hearing that.” He was getting close, Fitzwilliam could tell by the way he moved, how he trembled, how tight his voice sounded. The Inquisitor locked eyes with his mage holding the gaze as he lifted his hand and slipped it between them. It wrapped around his length, hard and dripping, and he could not stop the cry that bubbled up out of his throat at the contact. He did not break the gaze, however. “Now you know how I felt,” Dorian muttered. “All day, you so willing to give yourself to me, pressing close, trying my will. You almost had me.”

“I, _fuck_ ,” Fitzwilliam moaned as his hand began to move. Dorian’s shaft was still pumping him with enthusiasm and the combined sensation was incredible. “I have you _now_ ,” he finally managed.

“Always,” he sighed before descending on Fitzwilliam, capturing his lips once more. It was brief. He moved his head back and the Inquisitor looked up at him. “I’m close,” Dorian managed thickly. “But I want to watch you.”

A twinge of something familiar stirred in Fitzwilliam’s loins but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. He pumped his shaft quickly, almost brutally, wanting release so badly. “More,” he bit out pleadingly. Dorian complied. His hands went over Fitzwilliam’s shoulders, pegging him in place, slowing his slide up, and then he pounded his hips forward over and over. Hard. Fast.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Fitzwilliam cried out. He could feel it building. The heat between them, the feeling only being with Dorian could produce, and the ending of this moment.

“I, unnnnh, I love when you swear properly, Amatus,” Dorian whispered. “When you drop all this false propriety and just tell me how you feel. How I _make_ you feel.”

“Harder,” he gasped.

Dorian complied. Dorian’s eyes stayed locked on his face as he felt the fire about to break loose. “Venhedis, so tight,” he heard Dorian mutter somewhere but Fitzwilliam was worlds away, his body arching and convulsing around the mage as his seed spilled out in long ropes. “Beautiful,” Dorian grunted as his hips fitted against Fitzwilliam’s pelvis. His body jerked atop him for endless moments and when it stopped he was shuddering, moaning. He could feel Dorian’s length still hard and hot inside him, fluttering from the prolonged pleasure. It did nothing to stem the constant flow of fluid from his weakly twitching cock.

The mage collapsed atop him completely, their chests pushed close, the sticky mess between them unheeded. Dorian was still shaking, his breath coming in broken gasps. Fitzwilliam, was not much better, still shuddering from the aftershocks of the explosion of his pleasure, but he wrapped his arms around the mage and carded his fingers through his hair. “Shhhh,” he whispered. “You’re okay Doe.” But he wasn’t. Fitzwilliam could tell by the way the mage’s heart hammered and his chest hardly moved that he wasn’t breathing properly. “I’m going to count to ten, take deep breaths on the evens,” Fitz directed in a calm, reassuring voice. He spoke slowly, “One.” _Two, three four,_ he thought to keep time. “Two.” Dorian drew in a breath. It wasn’t deep, but it was better. _Two, three four._ “Three.” He exhaled. They kept on until ten had been reached. Dorian let out the breath in one long exhale. His breathing had returned to normal. The mage nuzzled at his neck, placing small kisses here and there.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low and sheepish.

“Over stimulated and over exerted,” Fitzwilliam analyzed. “I should not have pushed you so far.”

“Lucky you were here to bring me back down,” Dorian sighed, then groaned as he removed himself from Fitzwilliam and rolled onto his back.

“Always,” Fitz promised.

“Maker,” Dorian said, hand lifted to touch his stomach. “Is this _all_ you?”

Fitzwilliam felt the heat rush to his cheeks. “Yes,” he said with an embarrassed whisper.

“I’m impressed,” Dorian chuckled. “We’ll get cleaned up, just give me a moment.”

Fitzwilliam was having none of that. He sat up, located the bowl and rag the mage had used earlier and brought it over to him. “My mess,” he said softly, pressing the damp rag to Dorian’s taunt abdominal. The water had gone a bit chill,, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. “I’ll clean it up.”

Dorian smiled and folded his arms to put his hands behind his head. “When you’re done will you be peeling grapes for my pleasure?” He jested.

“I don’t see why not,” he smirked at the excited grin that spread across Dorian’s face. “But _you’ll_ be feeding them to _me_. I believe you once said people should be doing that.”

“Smartass,” Dorian snarked, leaning up to kiss him.

“Spoiled,” Fitzwilliam countered as he leaned in to Dorian’s lips. Though brief, the kiss held great affection. He felt the warm tingle he was coming to associate with Dorian’s kiss spread through his limbs. “Best Winterfest ever,” he sighed when they parted.

“Just wait until next year,” Dorian said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

 

AN: Hello my lovelies! I hope you enjoyed this fluffy moment. I certainly enjoyed writing it. Well, the boys did make it a little rough on me. Headstrong, the both of them.

I had a pretty great week, running from place to place to interpret ASL. Finding time to work on Birthrights is a challenge, but wholly possible. And we’re building up to some big things!

Thank you to the ladies in the DA: Writers group. They really helped me, as always, when my brain got stuck in dead end loops.

And thank you to you my dear readers! I have loved seeing messages from you with each new chapter. Not just the kudos on my writing but also hearing your theories and desires and sometimes your threats when I do something bad to the boys. Please, please, please keep them coming. I’ll beg all day. Review, Comment, PM me. I’m not easily offended, and I truly thrill in hearing from you. That’s a thing I like about being a fanfiction writer – a direct connection to your readers. Other writers don’t have a line to their readers like this. Don’t have a forum for hearing all of their thoughts. I want to take advantage of it. So send send send!

Also, I have started an Outtakes section for the Makers series. So go to my works to check it out. As of now it has only the one scene: what Dorian and Bull were doing the morning the disappeared together. A lot of people wondered, so now you can know.

If you have any more questions like that one, feel free to ask. Maybe their answers will become Outtake stories!

Have a wonderful week!

~Love!


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

                “Dorian,” Fitzwilliam drawled sleepily from his place against Dorian’s chest. “Does the Imperium have Sending Stones?”

                Dorian let out a small chuff of amusement. “Naturally, Amatus.” He let his fingers card lazily through the Inquisitor’s gloriously soft and mussed locks. It was probably very early in the evening still, the sun having gone down only just after they arrived back from the spring. “Of course we don’t have those ghastly _Circles_.” The word fell from his lips with extreme distaste.

                “We don’t either, now,” Fitz reminded him and he had a point. The Circles had fallen. What collections of mages remained in Ferelden were here, with the Inquisition, or had gathered together to declare themselves ‘colleges’. Gone were the days of prisons and phylacteries and Templar guards. He hoped it stayed that way. “It’s a pity you have them,” the man sighed as he nuzzled closer.

                Dorian blinked and tensed, attempting to look down at Fitzwilliam. “Why, exactly?”

                “Oh,” he said as if remembering something. He turned onto his stomach on the bedding and propped his head on an elbow to look at the mage. “Dagna has some ideas she wants to try out. Thought she could build off sending stones for it, but if the Imperium already has them then she might have to stray even farther from their initial designs.”

                “What?” Dorian asked, furrowing his brow. “She wants to what? How? And why would it matter if the Imperium had a similar device?”

                Fitzwilliam shrugged. “She spent most of the day explaining it to me, but I don’t really understand it. From what I have gathered she thinks she can make some type of instant communication system. But she doesn’t like that sending stones require you to sit and write. Takes too long. She wants to create something she can talk at and have others hear her. I think that’s why she doesn’t want to use magic other nations might have access to.”

                Dorian blinked again, mouth agape. “Do… Do you even realize how many laws of magic she would have to break?”

                Fitzwilliam rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “To hear her accounting of it? None. She mentioned having to challenge some aspects of magical theory but you _did_ help Alexis break Time. Maybe the laws aren’t as absolute as we think. And, apparently, Enchanting is basically just bending the laws of magic to serve non-mages anyway.” Dorian nodded thoughtfully. “Speaking of Dagna,” Fitz continued. "Can you do that teleporty thing?"

Dorian laughed heartily. "Can I do _what_?" _Teleporty thing?_

"That teleporty thing the other mages do," he continued as if that clarified everything.

Dorian continued prodding, trying to pry clarity from the Inquisitor, “ I am a man of _many_  impressive skills… Do you mean like the mages we fought in the Hinterlands? Disappear, a flutter of pages, and reappear a few feet away?”

"Yes! That!” Fitz proclaimed, pointing excitedly. “Can you do that?"

"Once, I had practice at it.” Dorian admitted. “It is, however, a particularly fragile magic. Essentially you open a hole in the fade and travel through. I don't have quite the knack for that type of thing. Nor the taste for it." He felt his stomach turn at the thought. Of course, the mages who teleported were only in the fade in a technical way. They could not interact with it, nor could it touch them. But even before their fall into the beyond in their physical forms Dorian had hated it. It made him sick. It felt so wrong.

"Oh,” Fitzwilliam said, suddenly deflated. “Well, do you know anyone who has a... Talent for it?"

Dorian looked up at him, curious. "Yes, I suppose so, now that you mention it. Why?"

"I have an idea I'd like to look into," he said with a secretive grin.

“I don’t suppose you’re about to tell _me_ ,” Dorian asked leadingly. The Inquisitor shook his head. “Fine,” Dorian huffed, defeated. “There’s a scholar with whom I am quite familiar, I am sure he’d come to Skyhold to help. His name is Kaeso Dexsius. Most recently he was keeping a house in Minrathous.”

“Can he be trusted, Dorian?” Fitzwilliam was suddenly very serious.

Dorian nodded slowly. “There are few men in Tevinter I would trust,” he said slowly. “But yes, Dexsius would number among them. He is certainly more trustworthy than Alexius. The man is brilliant but I fear he’s lost himself.” Fitzwilliam nodded, thoughtfully quiet. _Have I upset him?_ Dorian worried his lip between his teeth but it seemed this conversation was finished. Determined to lighten the mood he rolled onto his side, back to the Inquisitor and rummaged through the chest. “I know it’s in here somewhere,” he grumbled to himself. His hand bumped into various vials and cloths. The box was full of things he had thought would be useful here: healing potions and rags and knives and any number of seemingly random objects. Finally, his hand clasped around a small square of cloth. He felt around the edges for the details and, finding them there, pulled it free.

Sitting up he faced Fitzwilliam. The man looked at him quizzically but followed Dorian’s lead and sat also. “What is it?” He asked in a low voice. “Is something wrong?”

“What time is it, do you think?” Dorian asked, running the fabric through his fingers absentmindedly.

“Uh…” Fitzwilliam began uncertainly, “I’ve no idea. We’re too far to hear the bells. Also, in a cave,” he joked.

Dorian smiled at him. “I think I’m supposed to wait until the mid-watch bell, and it’s probably much earlier than that in all honesty, but I think I…” He trailed off. He looked at his hands and folded the cloth. Then held it out. It rested, nearly weightless, on his open palm as he moved the hand toward the man beside him.

“What’s this?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“Just take it,” Dorian said awkwardly.

Fitz lifted the square of fabric and examined it as Dorian gazed on nervously. He lifted and shook it from the neat square, laying it out on the bedding. It was a white handkerchief. Fitzwilliam’s fingers traveled along the edges where red silk thread had been stitched into words.

"In natura modica, in facto audente,” he read aloud. His voice held a question.

Dorian translated nervously, unable to look directly at the man before him. “In natura modica, in facto audente – Modest in temper, bold in deed,” his voice was soft as he translated the Trevelyan family moto. He wanted to sound strong, confident, but he had never given a gift like this before. He’d given gifts, of course, expensive tokens or lavish presents, thoughtless shiny things, but nothing like this. He’d worked on this for months. Himself. It was cheap – comparatively, the silk thread had cost him dearly –, it was simple and he had poured his heart into it.

                Fitzwilliam reached out, touching his chin tenderly, turning his eyes to him. He was beaming, a huge grin stretching across his features, lighting up his eyes. “And the ‘A’?” He asked, pointing to the bottom left corner. “Amatus?” He guessed. Dorian nodded. “It’s wonderful,” Fitzwilliam sighed and leaned in pressing their lips together gingerly. “Thank you.”

                The mage smiled softly, but was still insecure. “You really like it?”

                “Of course,” Fitz chuckled. “You must have had to save for ages to pay the seamstress.”

                Dorian considered letting that go but figured he might as well fess up. “Actually,” he said, waving a hand leadingly through the air. “I did it.” Fitz’s eyes went wide. “Yes, yes, I know. You are, undoubtedly, astounded to find my talents have no end.” He flashed a half-hearted smirk at the Inquisitor.

                Fitzwilliam moved his mouth silently. Then, once he had regained some measure of composure he said, “You embroidered this?” Dorian nodded, his cocky smile set his mustache off-kilter. “You’re amazing. Did you weave the handkerchief too?”

                Dorian managed a low laugh. “No, Amatus, that already belonged to you.”

                “What?” Fitz asked, clearly even more befuddled than before.

                “Do you recall the night we arrived back from Cole’s first expedition?” He waited for the Inquisitor’s nod. “Well, that night you gave me one of your handkerchiefs. I neglected to return it.”

                “And this is it?” He asked, lifting it. Dorian nodded. “So when you said you didn’t have a gift,” Fitzwilliam went on, “what you meant was, ‘I’m a liar’.” He smirked at the mage and Dorian blushed.

                “I _meant_ not a proper gift, obviously. Since I don’t have much in the way of funds at the moment,” Dorian drawled casually. “This is nothing more than a token.”

                “And the bathing, and the massage, and all this?” Fitzwilliam asked, waving his hand to encompass the staging in the cave. Dorian blushed. He could feel it creeping hot from chest to cheeks. “Let me see if I have this right,” Fitzwilliam said slowly moving across the bedding so he was straddling Dorian’s lap. He trailed sweet kisses across the expanse of his naked chest and up his neck in between words. “Taking the time to set this up, recruiting our friends, spending your free time embroidering, purloining my soap, massaging me, pampering me, _washing my feet_ …” Fitzwilliam paused to lean back and Dorian let his hands slide to rest on the warm curve of the man’s hips. He was gazing at Dorian so intently. “I don’t know much about Tevinter,” he admitted with a small half-smile, “but I know how important that was. You can’t tell me you didn’t get me a proper gift, Serah. Though I know you will try,” he added before leaning down and slanting his mouth across Dorian’s in a deep, tender kiss.

VVV

                Leaving the cave the next morning was difficult. Not just because it was warm, and comfortable. Not only because Dorian had been naked, his hot flesh pressed against his side. Not because he didn’t want to leave the place of solace and go back to their world of fighting and planning and danger. Mostly, it had been hard because Fitzwilliam knew what was waiting back in his rooms. His gift for the mage. Given what had transpired in the cave, he was now considering perhaps he hadn’t done enough.

                Still, they had managed to make the long, cold, journey back. Surprisingly, no one had demanded his attention upon their return. It seemed the council had taken his orders seriously and were _actually_ giving everyone a break. Well, everyone except those Josephine had roped into setting up for the feast they would have later that evening. Dorian had tried to part ways but Fitz managed to lure him up to his quarters.

                He stopped just outside the inner chamber door and turned to face the mage. “Close your eyes,” he said.

                Dorian raised an eyebrow suspiciously. “Planning to ambush me? Throw a pie in my face, perhaps?”

                “Just do it,” the Inquisitor huffed.

                Dorian smirked but closed his eyes and Fitzwilliam led him into the room. It took a moment of looking to spot where Harrit had set up the gift but spot it he did. He led the mage to a spot by his desk, positioned him facing it, and said “Alright, open your eyes.”

                Dorian’s eyes fluttered open and blinked in the light streaming in through the windows before settling on the armor. Fitzwilliam knew all its details, every last specification had been followed. Harrit did fine work indeed. Dorian’s jaw fell open as he seemed to realize the Inquisitor would not wear armor like this. This was Enchanter’s mail. _Masterwork_ Enchanter’s mail. It was all as he had asked, right down to the blue brocade sash and skirt, and missing sleeve. A broad leather band crossed the chest, as decorative as it was functional. A wide leather belt had been made to match. The high collar would keep him safe from debris as he cast in battle. Harrit had even crafted a leather brace for the bared forearm to afford the mage a little more, fire-resistant, protection.

                Dorian’s mouth worked silently for a moment until he turned to face Fitzwilliam. “This is too much,” he said slowly.

                Fitzwilliam laughed. “You desperately needed new armor. This will serve you well and it’s already made. I can’t take it back now. Besides which,” he drawled slowly, leaning in to let the heat of his breath and suggestive tone ghost across Dorian’s cheek, “blue is your color.” He dropped a kiss on his cheek and chuckled as Dorian’s breath hitched. “Just accept the gift Dorian.”

                “Thank you, Amatus,” Dorian sighed, turning to kiss him.

                They spent the remaining hours of Winterfest in each other’s company. They went down to the feast to celebrate with friends who severed just as well for family as their own blood kin. There was merriment, and wine, and singing, and laughter. For one night everyone forgot the fight, and Coryphaeus, and the danger and death that threatened them all. When the drink had dwindled and the crowd thinned Fitzwilliam took Dorian back to his rooms. They fell into each other’s arms, then into slumber together, well-lubricated and content. Blissfully ignorant of the torment their lives were about to endure.

 

 

AN: I know, this is a dreadfully short very fluffy chapter. It should probably go in the Outtakes section. But big things are about to happen and they needed some fun! So enjoy this lull and prepare yourselves.

Review! Comment! Let me hear all the things!

Also: Peachie_Veachie did fan art of young Dorian from chapter 9! It’s great. Check it out!

<http://almidia.deviantart.com/art/Young-Dorian-518236531>


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 20

Dorian sighed contently. Sure, the barrel under his bottom was unyielding, and, yes, the tavern was raucous even at this early hour, and there _was_ that whole thousand-year-old-would-be-god thing. But right now he was sitting, eyes closed, head thrown back as sunlight warmed his face and a breeze attempted to ruffle his perfectly positioned hair.

Spring had finally arrived, and while in Skyhold that meant something more like “not unbearably cold” than anything close to “warm” it was still glorious. The wind had shifted from cutting to brisk, the sun finally performed more function than form, and Dorian actually felt, well, ‘not cold’ whilst outside for the first time in ages. It was startling, the difference the few weeks since Winterfest had made.

Suddenly, he felt compelled to open his eyes. It was an odd sensation. One moment he was perfectly content. The next, uneasy, as if he were not where he ought to be, like he had forgotten something important. He frowned, blinking and examining the courtyard. The frown didn’t last. His gaze fell on Fitzwilliam, striding across the courtyard with purpose, and the feeling slid away. Warmth flooded his chest as his smile stretched. Fitzwilliam was on his way to an important meeting with the Council, Dorian knew, having talked over breakfast, but the Inquisitor had nothing but smiles and kindness for anyone he passed. How he managed it, Dorian couldn’t guess, but he valued it more than Fitz could possibly know.

He watched until Fitzwilliam had ascended the stairs and passed through the large entryway into the hall. Dorian felt cooler, suddenly, and looked up, expecting to see a cloud coving the sun, but the sky was clear, blue as far as the eye could see. He wrapped his arms around himself and stood. Maybe a walk would help? He headed for the ramparts.

The movement helped the chill but the clearing of his head made room for other things. For days now images, flashes of memory, had been invading his mind. It felt like… remembering a dream hours after waking. Sudden moments of clarity. Bits of conversation. _You utilized old magics. Magics the world hasn’t seen in a score of ages._

At first he’d considered talking to Solas but something told him it was best to keep this to himself. Maybe, once he understood it better, he could talk to Fitz about it but for now it seemed prudent to not share. Something about the memories made him feel cautious. As if there had been a warning. He’d recalled bits of the dream over the last few week, thought he might even have most of it now, but there were still obvious chunks missing. It was disconcerting to have blank spots in one’s memory.

Dorian shook his head, picked up his pace, and tried to turn his thoughts to greener pastures. Of course these days that meant Fitzwilliam. The past few weeks had been, well, not _perfect_ , but he figured it was probably as close to perfect as things could get in a world gone mad with green scars in the sky. His rooms had become largely ceremonial, spending most nights in Fitzwilliam’s. He had to admit, they _were_ more comfortable. He didn’t feel that aching anxiety that had plagued him before. His time with the Inquisitor was calm, easy. They laughed, they kissed, they were close. If he didn’t think about his homeland, or the fact that they might die any day, things felt almost _normal_. Generally, he hated that word. Normal meant boring. But things with Fitzwilliam could never be boring. If they weren’t fighting for their lives they were falling into the fade or killing dragons or Fitz was trying to sneak up on people to practice. He wasn’t entirely sure he believed the man when he said he was training to be an assassin. The way he laughed when he said it, coupled with his personality… well he just didn’t _seem_ like an assassin.

He sighed in frustration. This wasn’t doing any good. He wanted to do research but nothing in the rotunda’s archives was going to help him learn about “weird dream shenanigans.” He needed old texts, ancient texts. And some elven stuff. That word the Observer had used sounded elven. And… he stopped walking and looked around.

“Where in the Void am I?” He asked the empty dark room. He’d walked the ramparts, descended a staircase… and now he was, where, exactly? He lifted a hand and flicked his wrist, fire springing to life in his palm. Flickering orange and red illuminated the room. It seemed like he was under the keep. It was certainly dark and musty enough, if surprisingly dry… but he was unfamiliar with this part. The dust lay thick on tables and chairs. “I suppose I might as well explore,” he sighed, his voice echoed eerily in the stale air.

There wasn’t much in the chamber, the stairs back up, two doors, one on either end of the room, an old table and set of chairs. He picked one door at random and walked over to it. The wood was splintered but sturdy and the door opened easily. The hinges and latches weren’t even rusted. He entered to find the inner room was just as dark as the one he had left, darker even, without the sunlight from the outer door filtering in, but when he lifted his hand to illuminate it his eyes went wide. “Andraste’s silky smallclothes…”

…

Dorian had carted as many relevant books as he could carry back to the tower alcove and he’d been pouring over them nonstop since he sat down. Meals had come and gone, the sun had set, taking with it light and warmth. But Dorian didn’t feel the hunger, or notice the wan light, or shiver with cold. At some point he had lit a fire in the alcove, but he couldn’t recall now if he had done it for light or warmth.

The book he was currently flipping through was an amazingly well preserved specimen. It wasn’t the most interesting one he’d found, but it was the closest to a first addition of Porphyrius’s _The Falling Veil_ he had ever seen. And it was dramatically unadulterated. It had been speculated for centuries that the Magisterium had been manipulating the work to promote propaganda and if this was a genuine early copy then that claim was very, _very_ true.

The library he had found was a marvel. Someone must have worked stasis runes into the walls and ceiling and floor because the climate control, which was undeniably important, wouldn’t have completely stopped the decay of the tomes. No mold, no dry rot. But for a thick layer of dust the books could have been shelved yesterday. Dorian felt like a child. Flipping through the pages, browsing the shelves. It was like walking into the past. A better past, if the books could be believed.

Thoughts of Tevinter crept into his mind as he read. That had been happening increasingly often. He found his idle thoughts were less idle these days. He would lay in bed waiting for sleep to claim him and his mind would start running scenarios, concocting plans. He was passively planning Tevinter’s future, deciding how to make the existing system work for him. He’d tried shoving it aside – those thoughts held other consequences. Things he would have to give up if he wanted to accomplish them. And right now he wasn’t convinced that was worth doing. Tevinter might already be beyond saving. With a heritage built on genocide and an empire built on slavery what could really be done? Perhaps they _were_ villains. Maybe he had escaped. Maybe he had been lucky. Maybe he ought to thank the Maker and move on.

“Lost in thought, I see,” the soft playfulness of Fitzwilliam’s voice drifted in to accompany the quiet of turning pages and crackling flame. Dorian looked up and smiled, seeing the roguish man silhouetted against the deep red curtain.

“You snuck up on me,” he said, putting his books and notes away and standing to face the man. “It’s been a while since you’ve managed such a feat. I suspect you took advantage of my studious focus.”

“Or you’re reverting back to your old ways,” Fitz joked as he approached, “and have your head in the clouds.” He took Dorian’s hand in his own and Dorian inspected his face. As valiantly as the Inquisitor was trying the mage could see something behind the affected casual wit. Something was wrong. Dorian lifted an eyebrow, asking the question in his mind with the simple gesture. He received a nod in return. “Not here,” Fitzwilliam whispered, tugging gently.

They left the alcove, walking the familiar path to Fitzwilliam’s chamber. Generally, this walk was done in companionable silence, or good natured ribbing and they never touched. They certainly had never been seen walking the halls hand in hand like this. However, the contact was something Fitzwilliam seemed unwilling to relinquish, and the heaviness of the silence between them was pressing. The people scattered around the hall did not seem to notice the Inquisitor’s somber manner – they continued their actions, even gossiped about them as they passed. They were braver men than Dorian, or stupider. With Fitzwilliam’s current mood and expression the mage would have been afraid to so much as _look_ at him with anything less than total reverence.

When the outer door closed behind them Dorian could see Fitzwilliam slump. His shoulders sagged, his head drooped, he sighed and ran his free hand through his hair, mussing it spectacularly. Dorian adored when his hair was unkempt. It felt unique to their intimacy. A thing that was his to enjoy, that few others would even get to see. Dorian wanted to take Fitzwilliam into his arms and sooth him, but the outer chamber wasn’t the best place, given that anyone could open the hall door and see them. So, instead, Dorian began walking, tugging Fitzwilliam with him up the long, drafty walkway.

The reluctant way Fitz followed, almost forcing Dorian to drag him up the stair, reminded the mage of nothing so much as an unwilling puppy. He smirked, but managed not to laugh. It seemed Fitzwilliam had had an especially long and trying day. And even if he was adorable when he was cranky and pouty, it would do no good to laugh at him. Dorian opened the inner door to the chamber proper, made a flowery wave of his hand, and bowed, gesturing for Fitzwilliam to enter. The man grumbled something and walked past.

Dorian straightened and entered, closing the door behind him. “Bad day?”

Fitzwilliam flopped face-first onto the bed. There issued, from that location, a series of things that might have been words but if so they sounded like nothing so much as a string of muffled profanities. Dorian smirked again and walked over and sat upon the side of the bed. After a moment Fitzwilliam rolled over and stared at the vaulted ceiling.

“Morrigan thinks she knows what Coryphaeus has been searching for,” he sighed.

“What?” Dorian said, startled. “Well, that sounds like a good thing.”

Fitzwilliam shook his head. “It’s these old elven things called Eluvians. They’re like… doorways that lead through the fade and into a new place in our world. I guess. You should have been at the meeting, you would have understood better than I.”

“I’m sure you understood quite well, Amatus,” Dorian assured him. “But what would Coryphaeus even want with an… Eluvian?”

“Well, it’s my fault, really. Me and this mark,” he sighed, lifting his left palm and gazing at the scared flesh there. “I got it from the anchor he was trying to create, yes?” Fitzwilliam explained. “He was trying to use that to bring him, physically, into the fade. But I stole it, accidentally. An Eluvian could accomplish that.”

“So could _you_ ,” Dorian reminded, feeling soundly unsettled.

“Don’t tell _him_ that!” The Inquisitor managed a tight smile.

“So he’s after one and we need to…”

“Get to it first, from what Morrigan says,” Fitz replied. “So tomorrow into the Arbor Wilds I go.”

“ _We_ go,” Dorian corrected absently. “You should probably bring Solas too, if this magic is elven.”

“There’s a list,” Fitzwilliam sighed. “We’re bringing pretty much everyone. Except those already allocated elsewhere. So Cass and Cole and Varric, as well as Solas and Bull. Sera, Viv and Blackwater are all off doing something else. And, no, I don’t know what. Leliana won’t _tell_ me.” He finished with a groan.

“Leliana won’t tell you?” Dorian asked. That was baffling. She was the spymaster, of course, but she did not generally keep secrets from the Inquisitor.

“She told me she would tell me when I needed to know,” Fitz whined.

Dorian nodded. That did sound like the redhead. Still, that was an odd party. He couldn’t help but wonder what that particular skill set could be working on. Maker, if they didn’t kill each other that alone would be a feat worthy to be set into song. “So we’re departing tomorrow?” Dorian continued.

“Yes,” the man beside him sighed.

“Well, that means we have tonight then, before we’re sequestered into separate tents.” Dorian eyed him hungrily.

“Separate tents?” Fitz asked, finally finding a reason to sit up. “I was just going to have your things put in with mine.”

Dorian gaped at him. “But, I mean... Surely we should at least have a tent set up for me, even if I don’t use it.”

Fitzwilliam laughed in his face. It was affectionate, but fairly surprising. “We’ll be nowhere near the main troops, everyone else is … we’ll say “well-informed” of our relationship. If you prefer the charade, I can have them set you up separately. But no one is going to believe you’re spending your nights in that tent.” He finished with a smirk.

Dorian felt his face going red and looked away awkwardly. “I’m not used to things being so open…” he said quietly. He felt Fitzwilliam’s fingertips on his cheek.

“I will do whatever makes you most comfortable, Dorian. Even if _I_ think you’re being silly,” the Inquisitor assured him.

Dorian was having some trouble wrapping his brain around the sheer casual nature of their relationship. In Tevinter it would have been all shadows and pretense. In Ferelden, well, it wasn’t that no one cared, precisely. There were certainly people who thought two men or two women in love were tainted. But he supposed it was the main difference was there were no consequences for being open, here. Part of that was due to Dorian’s lack of status, of course. But another part of it was just a lack of ability to enforce such a thing. In Tevinter the Magisterium could fall on you with the weight of hundreds of mages. They’d charge you with something like “Failure to observe familial responsibilities,” not “sleeping with men” but the result was the same. Not to mention the treatment you could expect if you didn’t have family in the magisterium. They’d likely just send assassins for you.

“With you,” he answered quickly. Then, before he could change his mind, he continued, “I found the most remarkable collection of books today…”

 

VVV

Everyone had been having little chats. It made the hours of traversing the Arbor Wilds more bearable, the Inquisitor supposed. For them, to keep their minds occupied. For him, to have something besides aching feet, danger, and Morrigan’s constant theorizing and planning to ruminate on. He observed that the others had paired up too. Cassandra and Iron Bull talked about memorable battles, which was interesting as far as such talks went. Being more swiftness than brawn, Fitzwilliam wasn’t sure how much of what they described was actually within the realm of the possible, but it made for good stories, at any rate.

Cole mostly listened as Varric regaled him with tall tales. The dwarf was probably enjoying having such a gullible audience for his weavings. In all honesty it seemed the dwarf was having a hard time keeping a straight face. Cole kept looking at him with wide eyes saying things like, “but how did it get lodged _there?_ ” and “why did the wench have a nest under her skirts? Was she sheltering birds?” If the merchant kept this up he’d have to explain the finer points of nature to the boy… Varric seemed happy to shift over to Iron Bull and Cassandra’s conversation but it seemed the foursome had come to a silent agreement: avoid addressing the mages. Dorian and Solas had been embroiled in conversation for most of the journey.

“Can you imagine, Dorian?” Solas was saying. “The world before the veil, where people were not separated from the fade. Everything working in harmony.”

“This is one of the memories you found?” Dorian asked. “Something you observed from the spirits.”

“Yes,” Solas replied. “Years ago, but I was thinking of it recently. How fundamentally altered our relationship with magic has become since then. Since the time of old gods. It must have been quite remarkable.”

“Yes,” Fitzwilliam grumbled, feeling annoyed. They had been talking about magic theory and the good old days of magic for hours. They stopped to fight and as soon as they were out of danger they picked up right where they had left off. He’d managed to mostly tune them out, but the last comment was too much. “We’re having a wonderful time with the old gods, aren’t we? They’re just awe-inspiring.”

“Coryphaeus is _not_ a god,” Solas asserted crossly. “He’s nothing more than a grubbing human.”

“Oh well, that fixes everything then,” Fitzwilliam began, stopping their march short and turning around to face the party. This was insane. After everything they had seen today, after fighting Samson, the puzzles of the temple, the hours and hours of trudging and the days of travel before that, they were close to the end of this mission. And yet, all these two could talk about was how much better things had been before. As if men like Coryphaeus had not broken the world, started the blight, let the darkness in. “As long as the damage is done by men we can absolve gods of all the blame. Where _were_ these old gods when Coryphaeus opened the blight and let the darkspawn tear Thedas apart?”

Solas looked to the ground, something like shame coloring his face. When he looked up Fitzwilliam almost thought he meant to answer to the question. But before he could say anything, Dorian stepped between them, obscuring his view.

“Amatus.” Dorian reached out a hand to touch his shoulder but Fitzwilliam pulled away with a violent jerk.

“No,” he said. “ _Andraste_ did not send me, _the Maker_ will not save us. The old gods and the new have made one thing clear – we are on our own,” he finished with a growl.

“Things weren’t always like this,” Solas said softly, mournfully, from behind Dorian. “When magic was natural the gods did not need to interfere. When Coryphaeus broke the world he upset the balance of power. The gods did not know _how_ to help.”

Fitzwilliam ran his fingers through his hair, then nudged Dorian to the side so he could see the elf. “I’m sorry, Solas,” he sighed. “I know the respect you have for the past. It’s a trait we share. It’s simply hard to believe there was ever a time when things were…”

“Good?” Solas finished with a small smile.

“Better, at least,” Fitzwilliam agreed.

“As I was saying before,” Solas said as if he knew Fitzwilliam had been blocking out the conversation. “There was a time when magic was woven together. It flowed. There was a give and take. Then the Veil fell and the connection was severed. We had to fight to find the magic, to make it go where it needed to be.”

“Yes, that is exactly what I was reading about the other day,” Dorian said animatedly.

Fitzwilliam smiled at the mustached mage, at his obvious enthusiasm, and then turned back and continued walking. They had to be close to the Well of Sorrows by now.

As they walked through a huge white stone archway Fitzwilliam spotted the elf that had met them at the entrance, before they had faced Samson, Abelas. He was looking as grim as ever with his too-pale skin and soft green tree tattooed across his forehead and cheekbones. Their eyes met, and then the elf bolted, making for the plateau just across the courtyard.

“Void take it,” Fitz grumbled, sprinting across the flat expanse between them and the hill in an effort to catch up.

They climbed their way to the top of the plateau as quickly as possible. It wasn’t a terrible hike, though it did cost them precious minutes. When they had cleared the ascent Fitzwilliam could not help but stare, even if they needed to stop the elf. Even now, crumbling with age, the Well of Sorrows was an awesome sight. The clearing was paved with stones, surrounded by trees which looked older than time, thick trunks and twisting limbs making a natural wall. The pool shimmered, clear and cool. And behind it, towered the amazing Eluvian with smoky glass that appeared to gyrate with tendrils in the sunlight.

When he had gathered his wits he spotted Abelas standing at the edge of the pool, unmoving, gazing deeply into its shallow depths. He seemed on edge, precarious, like something powerful and dangerous had been cornered. The Inquisitor had seen him fight – that description was apt.

“Abelas,” Fitzwilliam greeted him with feigned casualness, approaching cautiously. The others fell into line behind him, content to observe. All but Morrigan, who had followed closely behind him.

“You’ve come for the Well,” he said. It was not an inquiry. He looked up from the pool, locking his eyes on the Inquisitor. Fitzwilliam nodded. “You know it is my duty to protect it. This has been my purpose for years beyond counting. The Elder One, the ancient shemlan, he intends to steal it.”

Well, Fitz had to give him this, the elf had a firm grasp on their situation. “He can’t now,” he attempted to sound reassuring. “He had prepared one of his servants, a man named Samson, to be a vessel for the Well’s knowledge. But we’ve broken him. The Well cannot be taken now.”

“That is good news,” Abelas admitted. “The Vir’Abelasan cannot aid Coryphaeus’s plans, but he could still corrupt it, as he corrupted those men who fought for him. He could hold this location, or destroy it. I’m afraid I am left with one choice.” Abelas turned to the water, gazing once more into his mirrored image as if looking for answers. The sunlight glittered across the surface, the objects it showed were reflected _too_ clearly.

“Abelas,” Morrigan said, stepping forward, strong and impressive. “You cannot know Coryphaeus would do any of those things.”

The elf turned to face her, glaring. “I assure you, it is for this purpose Coryphaeus has come,” Abelas said emphatically. “I would not see it fall to corruption after my brethren and I have spent these long years, hundreds of them, guarding its knowledge. I would see it destroyed before allowing it to fall into the wrong hands.”

“You mean _unworthy hands_ ,” Morrigan spat. “I would take the knowledge, use it to help. But you do not deem me fit.”

“Yes,” Abelas admitted. “I would see it destroyed to keep it from your grasping fingers. Better it be lost, than be bestowed upon the undeserving.”

“Fool,” she growled. “You’d let your people’s legacy rot in the shadows.”

Fitzwilliam spoke up, hoping to be a voice of reason. “Coryphaeus needed Sampson to use the Well. With him gone there is no vessel to claim it. Perhaps it is safe now.”

Morrigan turned on Fitzwilliam, eye flashing. “You _cannot_ be so blind, Inquisitor,” she said hotly. “The moment we leave here Coryphaeus will send more forces to secure this place. He will then hold it until a _new_ vessel can be prepared!”

Fitzwilliam considered the options. As much as he hated it she was right. And yes, while they might be able to leave forces here to defend the Well… no, they were already too far spread. They had to pick battles that would be effective. This location was too remote, supplies and men could not be guaranteed.

“The Well clearly offers power,” Morrigan continued. She must have seen the wheels turning in his head. “If that power can be turned _against_ Coryphaeus… can you afford not to use it?”

He nodded silently. She had a point.

“Do you even know what you’re asking?” Abelas asked beseechingly. “Do you truly know what this well contains?”

“I admit,” Fitzwilliam said with humility he did not have to feign, “I do not.”

“As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years they would pass their knowledge on through this.” He gestured to the pool, his regard reverent. “All that we were, all that we knew, it would be lost forever.”

Fitzwilliam moved to Abelas’s side and placed a hand on his shoulder. The elf looked up, meeting his gaze with burdened eyes.

“This can’t be easy,” Fitzwilliam said sympathetically, “holding on to what is left.”

“You cannot imagine,” Abelas agreed, something like appreciation in his tone. It was amazing what a little compassion could do to diffuse tension. “Each time we waken it slips further from our grasp.”

“Why remain,” Morrigan asked and Fitzwilliam bit back a curse. He had been doing quite well on his own, thank you very much! The edge of frustration and impatience had not left her voice. “Why perform a duty without purpose?”

“Duty,” Abelas replied, addressing with Witch of the Wilds once more, “is never without purpose.” He paused, eyeing her critically. “You have shown respect to Mythal,” he said at last. “And there is a righteousness in you I cannot deny… but you are _far_ too eager.”

“I do not deny it,” Morrigan said, drawing herself to her full height, shoulders back, a commanding force. “To regain lost knowledge I would risk much.”

“And I suppose,” Solas chimed in, lending his voice to the conversation at last, “it has not occurred to you that some knowledge is better left lost?”

“Better for whom?” Morrigan spat.

Abelas had gone quiet during the exchange, observing the entirety of the group before him. Fitzwilliam watched as his gaze lingered on Solas. Looks were exchanged, then the two nodded respectfully to one another. He dismissed it as two equals expressing their admiration and thanks. Then Abelas turned his attention to Dorian. “You,” he said pointing at the mage in his colorful armor. “You are different.”

“You have fine taste,” Dorian replied with his usual swagger.

“No,” the elf said tilting his head curiously. “I watched your magic earlier, whilst we fought the interlopers in the courtyard. There is something odd running through it. Something old. Impossibly old.” He motioned for Dorian to come forward and for once the mage seemed to read the gravity of their plight and complied. He walked forward, coming to a rest beside Fitzwilliam. “What _is_ it?” The question did not seem to be for the men before him. He reached out, fingertips resting on the bare skin of Dorian’s exposed shoulder. The contact lingered, his eyes closing for several moments. The elf’s lids opened slowly, pulling wide and revealing shimmering pools of awe. They shot to the left, taking in the Inquisitor. His eyebrows raised, as did his opposite hand, reaching toward Fitzwilliam. “May I?”

“Oh sure,” Dorian grumbled to himself, “ _you_ he asks permission of.”

Fitz shot him a warning glare and the mage quieted. It was decidedly awkward standing there, being touched by an elf, waiting. He was finding it difficult not to fidget. After all, this matter was somewhat time sensitive. He could hear Morrigan huffing in irritation to his side. If she could hear how the action made her sound like an impatient horse she might have refrained. Fitzwilliam had nothing against the witch, in fact he quite liked her, but she could be a right brat on occasion.

After what felt like ages, but in reality had likely been mere moments, Abelas opened his eyes once more and dropped his hands to his side. “How did you do it?” He asked softly.

“Do what?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“The Lenen'hima'sa,” he said as if that explained anything. His tone had grown from reverence to excitement. “I haven't seen a bonded pair in many ages! Such a thing, such magic, we… we thought it lost!” He was grinning wildly, practically bouncing out of his skin.

“Have you any idea what he’s on about?” He whispered to Dorian.

Dorian swallowed so thickly Fitzwilliam could _hear_ it. “Yes,” he said, voice tight, nervous. “I think I do, to some degree.”

Fitz turned to look at him, surprised. “Well,” he said slowly, “that wasn’t exactly the answer I expected.”

“But how did you _do_ it?” Abelas interrupted eagerly. Dorian shrugged. “You do not mean to tell me you did it by _accident_ ,” the elf said, mirth dripping from his words. It was clear the found that possibility impossible and absurd.

Dorian shrugged again, screwing his face up into an expression of uncertainly as he replied with a long, drawn-out, “Maaaaaaybe?”

Abelas laughed, “Surely you jest,” he said. “Such a thing… it’s magic from beyond. Beyond this time. Someone showed you, or - - or you were taught,” his smile faded the longer he talked as he saw the blank expressions of the men before him. “The mark you wield,” he said turning to Fitzwilliam, “its magic is similar, from the same time at least. Perhaps that is how… but the Lenen'hima'sa …”

“If you don’t mind,” Dorian interrupted, “could you explain what this Lenen'hima'sa   _is_ exactly? The information I have been able to… gather on it has been vague at best.”

“It’s a bond,” Abelas said slowly. “It’s hard to explain in the terms of this time… it links you together.”

“Like a marriage?” Fitzwilliam asked. If there was an edge of panic in that question, well who could blame him? Who got married accidentally?

“No,” Abelas said with disdain, and Fitzwilliam felt relief flood him. “Not like a marriage. Marriage is an institution of men. Ultimately meaningless. Two people bound by tradition and law, nothing more. The Lenen'hima'sa is a joining of _souls_ , not ideals.”

Fitzwilliam felt his mouth go dry. Well, _that_ relief had been short-lived. Somewhere in the distance he could hear Dorian squeak, “Excuse me? Could you, uh -- Sorry, come again?”

“I cannot explain this for you,” Abelas said gently. “It would take too long, and the time we have is quite limited.”

“Same blighted answer as the last bloody person I asked,” Dorian grumbled.

“I can tell you this much: this was not done _to_ you. The Lenen'hima'sa cannot be forced upon souls. You two did this together, even if unwittingly. You are intimate, are you not?”

Fitzwilliam felt his face flush with warmth as things came back into focus. He nodded. “Yes, Dorian and I are… yes.”

“Well then, that explains a great deal of it. In my time such a thing could not be done without the blessing of one of the Old Ones. But here it is. Perhaps the magic has changed, adapted since then.” Abelas nodded to himself, as if he had decided something. “Is this your desire?” He asked, abruptly shifting attention back to the well with a sweeping hand. “To partake of the Vir’Abelasan as best you can? To fight your enemies?”

Fitzwilliam had to put the bond out of his mind for the moment. He had to concentrate on things in _this_ moment lest Coryphaeus fall upon them and find them staggered and unprepared. “Not without your permission, Abelas,” Fitzwilliam assured.

The scoff he received from the elf surprised him. “One does not obtain permission – one obtains the _right_. In my age the Lenen'hima'sa meant you had an Old One’s faith. I must believe things have not changed _so_ much that this no longer holds true. If even one of them remains and you have their blessing… then you have earned this right.” Abelas leaned in, examining their faces. “The Vir’Abelasan may be too much for a mortal to comprehend. Brave it if you must. But know this:” he fixed them with a penetrating stare, “you will be bound forever to the will of Mythal.”

Fitzwilliam and Dorian nodded, acknowledging the solemnity of the statement.

“Bound to a goddess who no longer exists, if she ever did,” Morrigan spoke up at last, annoyed, it seemed.

“Bound,” Abelas reiterated. “Bound as we are bound. The choice is _yours_ inquisitor, mage,” he added nodding to Dorian. “In my estimation, you two alone have earned the right, but the decision is yours.”

“Is it possible Mythal might still exist?” Fitzwilliam asked. He needed as much information as he could gather to make an informed decision regarding the power the well offered.

“Anything is possible,” Abelas said with a smile. “Earlier this day I might not have believed such, but having met you now, seeing the Lenen'hima'sa… my conviction is renewed. Anything is possible.”

“Elven legend states that Mythal was tricked by Fen’Harel and banished to the beyond,” Morrigan said. Apparently the concept that the Goddess might still exist was of at least passing interest to her.

“ ‘Elven’ legend is wrong,” he said simply. “The Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder.”

“Murder?” Morrigan said with surprise. “I said nothing of –”

“She was slain,” Abelas interrupted impatiently. “If a god truly can be. Betrayed by those who destroyed this temple.” For a moment there was profound sorrow in his voice and something that Fitzwilliam knew well -- the ring of having failed someone who had depended upon you. “Yet,” he continued his voice gaining a degree of hopefulness, “the Vir’Abelasan remains. As do we. That is something.” The elf turned his back to the party.

“Are you leaving the temple?” Fitzwilliam asked, concerned.

“Our duty ends,” Abelas replied. “Why remain?”

It was Solas who spoke to the question first. “There is a place for you, Lethallin. If you seek it?”

“Perhaps there are places the shemlen have not touched,” he agreed, turning to address Solas. “Then again it may be that only Uthenera awaits us. The blissful sleep of eternity, never to awaken… if fate is kind.”

“The Imperium went to great lengths,” Dorian said, offering his reasoning to the discourse. To strangers he would sound strong, confident, but Fitzwilliam could feel how shaken he was. “ _Great lengths_ to expunge Elven history. You might be the last to know the truth.”

“And that is the thing to which you cling, is it?” Abelas asked with a smile. “A nobler goal than most – Truth. Tell me mage,” he said delicately. “Would the elves of your land listen to the truth?”

“They might,” Dorian attempted, but he did not sound convinced. “Would it hurt to try?”

The sorrow and apology when Abelas spoke was heartbreaking. “It very well may, Shemlan, yes.”

Fitzwilliam made one last attempt. “You could come with us, Abelas. Fight Coryphaeus. He killed your people.”

But the elf merely cast his eyes down and shook his head. “We killed ourselves long ago,” he replied.

“Thank you for this gift,” Fitzwilliam said, unable to think of anything else.

“Do not thank me yet, Shemlan,” Abelas replied. It felt like a goodbye.

“There are other places, friend. _Other_ duties. Your people yet linger,” Solas pleaded. It seemed out of character to hear the mage care so deeply for something of this realm. Of the fade, of spirits, he most assuredly cared. But of the here and now? Well perhaps that was it. This elf, Abelas, he was a link, a living breathing link, to a time long ago. To the old ways Solas endeavored to restore.

“Elvhen such as _you_?” Abelas asked. He voice was laden heavy with meaning, and though it was lost on Fitzwilliam, Solas seemed to understand it clearly.

Solas paused, considering his words. Then, with conviction he spoke. “Yes,” he said, voice firm. Strong. “Such as I.”

That answer seemed to surprise Abelas and he looked away, considering the words. Solas appeared hopeful but when their gazes met again Abelas shook his head. Solas looked defeated, deeply disappointed, but nodded once in acknowledgement and acceptance. How could the two elves communicate so much meaning with so few words?

“Malas amelin ne halam, Abelas,” Solas said. The elves looked to one another, mutual respect and understanding passed between them, reminiscent of their initial interaction. Then the ancient elf with a pale green tree tattooed across his forehead, turned and walked away. Fitzwilliam raised a brow at Solas in question. “His name,” the elf replied by way of explanation. “‘Abelas.’ It means ‘sorrow.’ I told him I… I hope he finds a new name.”

There was a lingering silence but Fitzwilliam could not let it last. Time was short. He turned to the Well and Morrigan followed, taking up a position to his left.

“You’ll note the intact Eluvian,” she sighed. “I was correct on that count, at least.”

“Is it still a threat?” Fitz asked. “Can Coryphaeus use it to travel the fade?”

“You recall when I took you through my Eluvian, I said each required a key?” She asked. Fitzwilliam nodded. “The well _is_ this eluvian’s key. Take its power and Mythal’s last Eluvian will be no more use to Coryphaeus than glass.” She was quiet for a moment, eyes closed, focusing on something. When they opened again she spoke. “I did not expect the well to feel so … _hungry_.”

“It’s loud,” Cole sounded from the side of the water. “And so cold.”

 _Cold? But clearly he’s not touching it._ “Seems like that should be a concern,” Fitzwilliam attempted modest levity but returned to a more serious tone quickly. “Let’s not be reckless. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“Knowledge begets a hunger for more,” she said dreamily. Then, a moment later, she turned to him, eyes hard, determined. “I am willing to pay the price the Well demands. I am also the best suited to use its knowledge in your service.”

Before he could reply Cassandra, blessedly silent until this moment, had sauntered up and interjected. “Inquisitor,” she said gruffly, “I do not like this. What would she do with this knowledge? She could be worse than Coryphaeus!”

“Firstly,” Morrigan said, through grit teeth. Her hands had clenched into fists. She was _trying_ to remain calm at least. “Abelas and I already had this conversation. Secondly, I find your argument wanting. I might be worse so you will paralyze yourself for fear of what might be? I can give you nothing but my word.” And with that she dismissed Cassandra entirely and returned her attention to Fitzwilliam. “Let me drink. Can you honestly tell me there is anyone better suited?”

Fitzwilliam turned around to address the only other he would have even considered. Sure, Solas was a knowledgeable mage and this Well was the history of his people, but while he had Fitzwilliam’s respect he could not quite bring himself to trust the elf. Luckily, Solas did not seem interested in the Well anyway. “What about you, Dorian?”

Dorian started, eyes wide, surprise evident in his voice. He shook his head. “A human from Tevinter scooping up the last bits of Elven knowledge?” He asked, incredulous. “I know why you ask, Amatus, I know it’s important but I -- I can’t… I can’t be that man.”

Fitzwilliam nodded, relieved and terrified at the same time. Relieved that Dorian resisted the temptation, that he could trust the mage to do what was right above what was, unarguably, seductive. Terrified because that left a single option.

“I would be,” he said. A cacophony erupted as every person at the well began talking at once. He could not hear words so much as tones: Bull’s gruff complaint sounded surprisingly alarmed as did Cassandra’s objections. Morrigan, naturally, was angry, demanding. Varric sounded like he thought Fitzwilliam had lost his sense. Even Cole was saying something, though it was just as likely to be about something Nugg/Druffalo relations as it was about the well. The Inquisitor slashed his hand through the air bringing the chatter to an abrupt halt.

It was Morrigan who spoke first. He had expected such but he had not anticipated her tone. Where he had thought to hear bitterness and anger he heard coaxing. Not manipulation, just logic. “You lead the Inquisition,” she said gently. “This is not a risk you can take. Surely the others agree with me?” She turned to them with expectant eyes.

Dorian, naturally, was speaking before anyone else had even noticed the invitation. “I don’t want to risk losing you to a well, Amatus.” His grey-blue eyes were expressive, full of emotion, and why shouldn’t they be after all they had learned today. It was a fine reason. But as much as it cut him to admit it, it wasn’t enough. Fitzwilliam quirked a small smile at the mage, but did not respond as he awaited other opinions.

Bull addressed him next, voice strong and gravely, as usual. “Any chance this well could help us against Coryphaeus, I say you take it.” That was mildly surprising. The Qunari tended to be cautious of anything related to spirits.

“Morrigan is right about one thing,” Solas said. “Coryphaeus would use this against us. We should take the power which lies in that well.”

The Inquisitor turned to Cole. “And you, Cole,” he said gently. “Do you want to say anything?”

Cole hung his head shaking it back and forth. He took that to mean the boy did not have anything he wanted to say but Cole spoke anyway, unable to meet his eye. “So many voices. They would be in your head, talking over you. You don’t want them.”

“Well that was creepy,” Varric said and Fitz could see the boy hide his face under the large brim of his hat.

“What about you Varric,” he called on the dwarf as a means of taking the focus off Cole, he knew the boy didn’t like the attention.

“You’re asking _me!?_ ” Varric exclaimed “This is a lot of… _weird!_ I barely understand how any of this works!”

“Fair enough. And you Cassandra?” He said turning to the warrior. The scar on her cheek pulled tight as she pursed her lips.

“If it is truly between you and her,” Cassandra said bitingly, “then I agree with the apostate. You lead the Inquisition. Let her take the risk. And Maker help us all.”

Fitzwilliam nodded to them all then turned back to the pool of water. He could hear it whispering. _Well that’s off-putting._ “If anyone is going to use the well, Morrigan,” he said, trying to sound apologetic, “it will be me. I can only hope you understand why.”

Morrigan did not seem pleased, but she nodded, resigned to his choice. “Perhaps it is better this way,” she said absently. “Do as you will with the Well of Sorrows, Inquisitor. But be careful.”

Fitzwilliam nodded as Morrigan stepped aside to allow him unfettered access to the Well. He wasn’t sure how to go about this, but walking into the water seemed a good start. There were steps down, even if the water only came to just below his chest when he has descended them. The water began to shimmer, his armor reflecting light that had no source. He dropped his hands into the pool submerging them, making small ripples under the surface. He cupped his hands, lifting the water to his mouth. He hesitated a moment, but no more than that as he could feel the urgency of their situation.

He drank.

He felt the water in the Well rush away from him in a massive circular wave. Then everything went dark. When he opened his eyes his was laying down, though not in the water. It was dark, misty, like the Fade had been. But this mist was dark, like smoke, not the green fog of the slumbering world.

 _Garas Quenathra,_ he heard voices in his head. He struggled to stand, to see, eyes searching for the voices.

“Why am I here?” He asked aloud. Being able to understand the voices was a trouble he would have to put aside for a nightmare somewhere down the road. He spoke to answer, though he was not sure it was needed. It simply felt more natural. “Coryphaeus…” bloody void, they didn’t know who Coryphaeus was. “A magister,” he corrected, hoping that would do, “wishes to rip the Veil open. I must learn how to stop him!”

The whispers answered, though he could not distinguish the words. “I can’t understand you’re…” he growled at himself, frustrated. Perhaps he ought to have let Morrigan drink after all. “Look,” he shouted, pleading, hoping that emotion was a universal language. ”Will you help me or not?”

 _Vir Mthal’enaste_ , they replied.

And then his head felt like it was splitting open as images and words flooded his mind. The world went dark once more.

…

“Festis bei umo canavarun,” he could hear the panic and concern flowing through Dorian’s silky voice. “If you don’t come through this I _swear_ I’ll kill you,” he said through a clenched jaw. The threat was a defense, Fitzwilliam knew. A way of protecting himself from the honest concern he felt for the man he loved. Fitzwilliam’s eyes fluttered open. When Dorian’s face came into focus a massive grin split his face. “Not dead!” The mage declared, joy and relief nearly palpable. “Well, _that’s_ a relief,” he sighed. He leaned over the Inquisitor, who was, apparently, flat on his back in an empty pool and kissed him soundly. Warmth flooded him and he found himself grinning against the mage’s insistent lips, letting Dorian positively take his breath away. The voices, which seemed to have receded to the back of his mind for the moment, hummed approvingly. Or at least, it felt approving. It was possible he was imagining things. But that didn’t matter, nothing mattered but the warm wet slide of those lips against his, the tickle of a mustache, the hand cupping his face with fingers rough and gentle.

Eventually, those sensations ceased, and Fitzwilliam opened his eyes to find Dorian gazing at him intently. “So…” he drawled, “Good? Bad? I’m dying to know.” His smirk, full of unbridled joy and playfulness was infectious, no matter how disorienting the experience had been, or how badly his head ached.

“Odd,” Fitzwilliam said as Bull offered him a hand and pulled him to a standing position. “Decidedly odd.”

“Not to break up the party,” Varric said, a sharp hint of panic making his voice high and thin, “but I think we have a crasher.”

Fitzwilliam followed the dwarf’s finger as he pointed to the stair across the yard. Coryphaeus was coming, looking around. And then… then he spotted them. Fitzwilliam readied himself but they had time, it would take a while to cross that distance on foot… “Ebost issala!” Iron Bull cursed. “Is he _flying?_ ”

“Of course he’s flying,” Dorian yelled, his arms flailing sarcastically. “Didn’t you know – all Magisters can fly!? Fitz, darling, any suggestions?”

Morrigan pointed to the towering mirror behind them. “The Eluvian, Inquisitor! You must activate it.”

But he didn’t know how to do that. All the same the glass shimmered to life. Fitzwilliam looked down at his hand. It was glowing, and not in the familiar green way the mark did. So was his arm and, well, _all_ of him, at least that he could see. But he didn’t have time to worry of paltry details like that with Coryphaeus was closing in. Fitz motioned the others to the gate, urging them to follow Morrigan. Everyone was through when he saw something, a shadowy person-shaped figure, impossibly large, appear out of the center of the well, air swirling around it in a whirlwind. It blocked Coryphaeus’s way then turned to look at the Inquisitor. _GO!_ Something in his head screamed.

He leapt through the mirror, landing in a heap on the other side before it winked closed, turned to lifeless glass behind him. He glanced about, noting via the scattered chests and sheets that they had returned through the Eluvian back at Skyhold. That was going to be fun to explain to Commander Cullen, and the troops they had left behind. He caught Dorian’s eye, and winked. The mage’s laugh echoed infectiously in the nearly empty storage room.

 

 

AN: Well... I know this took a looooooong time. And for that you have my apologies. I sincerely hope it was worth waiting for. And, sadly, the next chapter is likely to take just as long.

I am working on part 2 of the Makers series as we speak. I will be submitting it to Tumblr's Dragon Age Big Bang story collection and the rough draft is due April 2nd! I'll post a link to the event below, so you can check out what it's all about. The story won't go up properly until May, however. They are accepting applications for Artists for the event as well, so if you'd like to draw something from the Makers universe (and get a peek at part 2 before anyone else) than head on over to the page and sign up!

And please, for the love of the Maker, the old gods and the new, leave comments! It's been so long since I posted and heard from any of you. I want to know things! What was your reaction to the bond? Where do you think things go from here? Can you believe Fitz drank from the Well!? 

Thanks for reading!

~Love!

Big Bang story collection: dragonagebb.tumblr.com


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

 

 

Chapter 21

They had separated after their unceremonious arrival in a dusty storage room. Fitzwilliam needing to arrange communications and, apparently, have it out with Morrigan after their confrontation regarding the Well. They were already arguing before the others had cleared out of the room. For his part, Dorian could not stop thinking about the conversation he had had with the elf, Abelas. It had rolled about in his mind until he decided to take a lamp to the library below and see if he could not find some records to support the claims that the Tevinter Imperium had not been to blame for the fall of Arlathan.

As amazing as the library was Dorian found he preferred not to stay in it for extended periods of time. It was too dark, too dry, and too… well, too exact. The temperature never altered, it was neither cool nor warm, and the only light came from the lamp, removing his ability to tell the time by the passing of the sun. Sitting there reading for an hour felt like it had been both a day and mere moments because of the complete absence of any gauge for change. After that he had decided he would pack up the few promising tomes he had pulled down and retire to his usual spot in the rotunda library.

That had been hours ago and now the sun was setting. He’d found scraps of Abelas’s truth scattered through the texts he’d gathered and poured over as the day waned. For the hundredth time he ran the meeting through his head.

_“So… you’re elves from ancient times? Before the Tevinter Imperium destroyed Arlathan?” Fitzwilliam asked carefully, his voice echoing around the decoratively tiled chamber. Elves behind them held drawn bows, ready to loose their arrows and strike the intruders down._

_Abelas shook his head, and his words set Dorian’s head spinning. “The Shemlen did not destroy Arlathan. We Elvhen warred upon ourselves. By the time the doors to this sanctuary closed, our time was over.”_

_“Wait,” Dorian interjected. “That’s not right. What are you saying?” He must have misunderstood._

_“You would not know the truth,” Abelas said dismissively. “Shemlen history is as short as the pool of your years.”_

_Dorian wanted to object. He had known Vintish history was more propaganda than truth but…well if what he knew wasn’t the truth then what was? “What did the Imperium do then? Are you saying it wasn’t a war?”_

_“The ‘war’ of carrion feasting upon a corpse, yes,” Abelas drawled._

Dorian stared at the book in his hands not really seeing the letters. His head was too full of the implications of this. Until Abelas and the Well, until _now_ the idea of going home had been a distant dream. Something he had longed for, but was ultimately a useless fantasy. Tevinter’s history was too long, too bloody. There was nothing redeemable. Or so he had thought. Now, knowing Arlathan had succumbed to infighting… that, according to the texts the early Imperium had done little more than seize a fallen land… _Maker,_ they weren’t conquerors – they were _scavengers._ Their great legacy, the thing upon which every law and custom in the Imperium was based... it was all a lie. He had the texts, he had the proof. That ridiculous dream had just become a possibility and it called to Dorian like some mythical nautical beast luring his ship to the rocks.

 _Vishante kaffas_ , he swore inwardly. He knew what this meant and he didn’t want to think about it. Of course, try not to think of it made it dominate his thoughts.

The red curtain pulled back with the gentle swish of velvet and Fitzwilliam walked in.

 

…

 

The Inquisitor approached the alcove in the library. He wasn’t sure what had brought him here, now. Perhaps it had been drinking from the Well. The knowledge that floated about in his head. The power he could feel but not access. The way Dorian had sounded when he’d fainted, terrified and lost and pleading. When they had arrived back here he had had to leave the mage immediately to deal with the backlash of their mission. Arrange for the safe return of their troops and Cullen, and explain to Morrigan, once again, that he _had_ to drink from the Well. They simply had not had time to fight the elf if they wanted to get away without facing Coryphaeus. Now he just felt like he needed to make sure all was well with Dorian. He pulled the curtain back.

Yes, there he was. In that over-sized chair, reading, just where he had expected to find him. Fitzwilliam opened his mouth to speak but Dorian looked up and beat him to it. “What happened at the elven temple... it's got me thinking. I should go back, shouldn't I? To Tevinter.” He stood, and tucked the purple-covered book into the back of his belt. “Once this is all done... if we're still alive.”

The Inquisitor blinked, speechless, and Dorian walked past him, gaze lingering, to the balcony. For a moment Fitz made no move to follow. The mage continued from behind him. “All my talk of how terribly wrong things are back home, but what do I do about it? Nothing.” Fitz managed to turn and look at him, but he needn’t have done. He could _hear_ it there as plainly as looking – the self-loathing in his mage’s voice. Dorian put his back to the banister and leaned against it. His body language was casual. From a distance an observer would think they were having a normal chat, not fighting for their future.

He wanted to smack some sense into the mage, but he was clearly already struggling. And must have been for quite some time if he had blurted it out like this. He was usually so careful with his words. Each one used to purpose, placed _just so_ with just the right inflection. So instead of all of the things he wanted to say – like “shut up” and “stop being an idiot” and “kiss me” – Fitzwilliam composed himself and said, “You’re not doing nothing Dorian. You came here. You're fighting with us.”

That garnered a small smile from him, Fitzwilliam could see it shining in his eyes, sincere and real. He’d been touched by those words. After all this time he was still unused to praise. “Thank you for saying that,” he said, voice full of sincere emotion. Then he took a deep breath and seemed to steel himself against what was to come next. “I want to do more than stop Coryphaeus, however. I want to save my home.”

Fitzwilliam nodded. “I know that, Dorian. But I’m afraid I don’t understand what this has to do with what happened at the temple.”

Dorian dropped his gaze to the floor and rubbed the back of his neck. Fitzwilliam was keenly aware, in that moment, how desperately he would miss seeing that quirk of frustration from the mage. “I’ve been spinning _that_ around in my head for hours,” he confessed with a sigh. “We encountered ancient elves. A piece of history, something the Imperium didn't destroy. Maybe my people  _can_  atone for what we've done. Maybe… maybe there is something still left to restore.” He sounded so hopeful of that. He smiled at Fitz for a moment, but it was short-lived. His next words were bitter. “And that elf, Abelas, he said the Imperium wasn't what destroyed the elves. My people would never accept that. It would reduce us to scavengers, destroy our legacy no matter how terrible. But we _should_ accept it, Fitzwilliam. Take our history down a peg, confront the legacy hanging over us like a shroud. Maybe not all of us want to, but that could be altered. If you can change minds, so can  _I._ ” He had never heard the mage speak with such conviction. It sent a shiver down his spine. In that moment Fitzwilliam _believed_ him. _Believed_ Dorian could actually do what he said.

But he couldn’t help but wonder – how much of this plan was certainty and how much was fear. Was he just trying to run away again? Maybe he didn’t feel his place here as strongly as he once did. Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe the revelation about the Lenen'hima'sa had been too much, perhaps it had pushed his limits. Fitz knew it had shaken _him_. It was frightening to be so dependent on the mage. “Well,” Fitzwilliam said lightly, a vain attempt to restore their usual repartee. “Someone with _your_ impeccable taste could transform Tevinter.”

The mage huffed a soft laugh. “I hope you're right. You usually are.” He paused for a moment, and then said in a soft voice, “It might surprise you to know you're the one who inspired me.”

That was the moment when he realized Dorian was serious about this. He wasn’t just considering leaving – he was actively planning on it. “You would just … leave?” The words came out heavy and shocked, as blunt as the realization had been. “What about…” He’d at least thought he’d get a say in this. Especially now with this mysterious bond of which they knew far too little.

“Us?” Dorian asked with a sad smile. Fitz nodded. _Us_. “Trust me, Amatus, it would give me no pleasure to leave your side.” He looked at him, eyes pleading and sorrowful. They begged for understanding Fitzwilliam wasn’t sure he could give. “You make monumental decisions affecting the entire world. How can I not consider some of my own?”

He felt the anger bubbling up inside him. He hadn’t chosen to be the person to make those decisions. It had been thrust upon him. It was unfair to use that against him. He knew this sudden burst of ire was irrational. Logically, he had always known this was a possibility. Dorian had always loved him homeland. He’d been a man _grieving_ for it not that long ago. And now he’d discovered it wasn’t dead or lost. But this just felt so sudden. He wasn’t _ready_. “I’m not asking you not to,” he began slowly but stopped. With his growing emotional state it might be best to retreat into the semi-privacy of his chambers. He turned and walked to the stair, motioning for Dorian to follow. They walked the hall in silence, then entered the room, a room that held so many cherished memories. Tender words and lingering kisses, and passionate embraces. The door clicked, latching behind them.

Fitzwilliam moved to the corner, having spotted the decanter, and poured himself a drink out of reflex. He downed the warm amber liquid in one go and then refilled it, adding a second glass and handing it to Dorian. They were both silent for a time. Fitzwilliam, leaning against the stone wall, considering what to say next. Dorian fidgeting, resting in a half-sitting position on a corner of the desk unoccupied by reports. Finally, Fitzwilliam spoke. “Why don’t I come with you?” He wanted to grimace as soon as the words left his lips. It was downright childish. He had a responsibility to the Inquisition. He had lived his life by the law that duty was something greater than he was. But he had given up so much already. Surely, he could find a way to be true to himself _and_ his duty.

But Dorian was shaking his head. “Take you away from all this?” He said lightly, gesturing to nothing in particular. “I can’t ask that of you.”

It bothered him that Dorian was affecting this casual air. He could feel the tension in the mage. Something he had been feeling for days but hadn’t understood until Abelas had explained the Lenen'hima'sa. He wasn’t just attuned to Dorian’s feelings. He was _feeling_ them. Though Fitz knew this was painful for him, Dorian still acted as if this was nothing, simply an inevitable conversation that had finally arrived. “You’re not asking,” Fitzwilliam practically growled, his fingers gripping the heavy tumbler of whiskey more tightly. “I’m _offering_.”

“Tempting,” Dorian said, voice pinched with pain. Fitzwilliam could feel the sharpness of that word through the bond and it shot all the way up his spine. The mage fought against it as earnestly as any battle in the waking world, as silent struggle Fitz could feel warring within him. Dorian took a sip of the liquor and lowered the glass, hissing through his teeth on the inhale. The throbbing from earlier lessened as he spoke again. His voice was firm, not cruel exactly, but it brooked no argument, “But we both know you would end up doing it all yourself. In Tevinter I am just another outcast from a well-respected house. _You_ are the Inquisitor. As much as watching my homeland beaten into submission would amuse me… this is something _I_ need to do.”

Fitzwilliam wanted to throw the glass at his head. Even though he understood Dorian’s concerns, he would hardly just walk into Tevinter and take it over. He finished the drink and put the tumbler down before he did just as he wanted and loosed it toward the mage. Then, with a little push, he moved from his spot against the wall and turned to look out the large glass windows. “Dorian,” he said slowly, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. “You’re being shortsighted. We just learned about this bond. We don’t know what it means… what the repercussions of putting leagues of distance between us might be.”

He heard the shuffle of Dorian’s movements, the light clunk of the glass being put on the desk, the soft sounds of his footfalls moving closer. Fitzwilliam wanted nothing more than to embrace him, to feel the reassuring warmth that had accompanied his touch long before the Lenen'hima'sa. But he didn’t, he crossed his arms and looked out over the Frostbacks instead. He could feel Dorian’s breath against his neck now, but the mage did not reach out for him either. One conversation, one that wasn’t even finished, and they were worlds apart.

“I…” Dorian started hesitantly. “You’re right, and I’ll make sure to research that while I’m here. But once we beat Coryphaeus…”

“Thought you were betting against us,” Fitzwilliam said dryly. He had meant for it to be a joke, but it fell flat, sounding more like a reprimand. He hated this, he felt so immature, petulant. He couldn’t keep his emotions in line. It hardly helped that he was feeling the mage’s too, just on the edge of his consciousness, trying to pull him in and drown him.

Dorian sighed and then his hands were on his shoulder, turning Fitzwilliam to face him. “I knew,” he began, voice tender, “that this would be hard on you. I’m sorry for that, Fitzwilliam, truly. But Tevinter needs me.”

“ _I_ need you,” Fitz blurted out, his voice broke under the strain of the emotion in that raw admission. “I need you by my side, now more than ever.” He dropped his head against Dorian’s shoulder helplessly. He felt the mage’s chest bounce slightly as a small puff of laughter escaped him. He dropped a kiss atop Fitzwilliam’s head, lips lingering.

“Emotional blackmail is a fine thing to pull out of your arsenal,” Dorian drawled playfully, lips still resting against his hair.

Fitzwilliam lifted his head up, eyes panicked. “I didn’t mean it like that, I just…”

Dorian laughed again and bowed his head to capture the Inquisitor’s lips in a short kiss of affectionate apology. “I’m joking,” he said when they parted. “I'll think on it. _Closely,_ ” he vowed. “This is your fault, remember.”

“ _My_ fault,” Fitzwilliam parroted. “You keep saying that. I fail to see how.”

“You inspired me with your marvelous antics,” he explained with a forced smile. “You’re shaping the world... for good or ill. How could I aspire to do any less?”

 _I had hoped we would do it together,_ Fitzwilliam thought achingly. _I couldn’t have done this without you…_ But he couldn’t say any of that. The words would not come.

“If it means proving Tevinter can be better,” Dorian continued, “that there's hope even for my homeland? I would do _anything_ , Amatus. I would give up anything.”

Fitzwilliam pulled away, breaking contact entirely. Dorian’s arms fell to his sides. “Even if you don’t have to?” He asked angrily. “Are you really so captivated by hurting that you would cast me aside unnecessarily?” He saw Dorian flinch at his words, his gaze drawn to the floor.

“I just don’t see,” he said softly, “how to make it work with you there. You have to be here to run the Inquisition, at least part of the time. It’s not an easy journey. And I can’t effect change from here. I…” he trailed off weakly.

“Well I can’t accept that,” Fitzwilliam said. “I won’t. This… this isn’t over,” he promised. Then Fitzwilliam strode to the door, pulled it open, and left, letting it slam shut behind him. He could feel the aching on the other side of the door, where Dorian was, noticing for the first time that he could use the bond to feel the general location of the mage, like north on a compass. He tucked that thought away for later examination and continued down the walkway.

He wasn’t sure where he was going until he arrived in the undercroft. Dagna and Harrit looked up as he entered but their greetings were lost on him. He moved to the dwarf. “You have a mission,” he said to her.  She blinked up at him, looking a bit like a startled woodland animal, but she seemed to be listening. “The pet projects you are working on with Doctus Dexsius,” he said in a low voice, “I want you to start developing them.”

Dagna’s mouth fell open and worked silently for a moment. Finally, she managed to speak, “Inquisitor, those are theories at best. The resources needed to make them realities…”

“Are yours,” Fitzwilliam assured. “No matter what it takes. I want the Transmitter and the other device working as soon as possible.”

“Well,” she said slowly. “The Transmitter is already working. Dexsius figured it all out in a few days. But the other device… Inquisitor it’s going to be amazing! If… if it’s possible.”

Fitzwilliam crouched to look her in the eyes on her own level. Not a superior looking down at her, but an equal. “I’ve already called for the return of Gereon Alexius,” he confided in a low voice. Understandably, the woman looked shocked and mildly horrified. “He will be invaluable. You heard about how Dorian and I were sent forward in time?” She nodded silently. “It’s all true. Alexius did that. We’ll be careful, never showing him enough of the information for him to make use of it. And he will be under strict guard. But you will have him.” For all the worry in her eyes, Dagna also looked _excited_. She nodded. “You also mentioned another enchanter you know,” Fitzwilliam said, pulling information from a conversation they had had back when the dwarf had first arrived in Skyhold. “I’m going to try to track him down. I want you to tell Leliana anything you know about… what was his name?”

“Sandal,” she answered quietly. “Of course, Inquisitor.”

“Good,” he sighed, standing. “I’ll also be sending you Morrigan’s research on the Eluvians,” he continued hurriedly. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this is all need to know,” he paused, waiting for her curt nod. “Good. I don’t need everything functioning by the time we beat back Coryphaeus,” he said, “but I will need to see results. Do you think you can handle this?”

Dagna nodded her head enthusiastically, a wide smile breaking across her face. “Thank you!” She shouted. And then she dove forward and hugged Fitzwilliam about his waist, knocking the wind out of him. He hugged her back, awkwardly, due to their difference in height, and laughed softly, feeling the weight of impending loss lessen slightly. Dagna pulled back and turned, practically running to her work station and gathering her notes before making her way to the corner room where Dexsius’s workshop was located.

He walked up the long cold stair of the undercroft feeling more at ease now that he had set actionable steps into place. He was not willing to let Dorian go without a fight. This was hardly the end, of course. Even with four magical geniuses working on this, Fitz knew it was going to eat up a large chuck of his free time. Between the project, assassin training with Leliana, and the ever-present war against Coryphaeus and his agents, he was fairly sure he’d be too busy to do anything but sleep. _It’s worth it,_ he told himself. If Dagna, Dexsius, Sandal, and Alexius could make the device work… well the travel part of Dorian’s excuse would fall apart. Now he just needed to address the litany of other justifications. He needed a way to convince Dorian he would be too busy to interfere with his plans. Something that would render the Inquisitor unable to “beat Tevinter into submission.”

He stopped about midway up the stairway, remembering something Dorian had said ages ago, back when Fitzwilliam’s training had only just started.

_“I heard a little rumor about you,” the mage said as Fitzwilliam approached the top of the library stair._

_“Is that so?” The Inquisitor asked, amused._

_“Indeed,” Dorian replied. “Someone has been doing some training.” His voice lowered to something that wouldn’t carry. “As an_ assassin _no less,” he said conspiratorially._

_“The skills are useful,” Fitzwilliam said carefully, attempting to gauge the mage’s feelings on the matter._

_“I’ll say,” he said with a smirk. “With the amount of killing you do a bit of flair is a_ fine _thing.”_

 _Fitzwilliam’s mouth opened in protest. “I don’t kill_ that _many people!”_

 _Dorian laughed loudly, drawing attention before he managed to stifle it and revert to their more convert conversation.  “Sorry,” he said, voice still strained with the effort of holding back the amusement. “It’s just that… Are you_ joking _, Amatus? I’m only surprised you didn’t kill someone walking over here.” Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes and the mage held up a placating hand. “I apologize,” he said. “Making fun was not my intention. At any rate, I only meant to say that if you ever intend to make an actual profession of it, do tell me. The Antivan Crows have nothing on the Imperium. I_ know _people_. _Keep it in mind._ ”

Fitzwilliam shook his head, clearing it of the memory, and resumed his climb with renewed purpose. It was time to find Leliana.

AN: Well, I submitted my rough draft for the Dragon Age: Big Bang AND surprisingly managed to pull this together also! So, happy Friday, I guess! I have to finish the DABB submission by May 2nd, so we’ll just have to see how updating goes.

Leave comments! This is an important chapter and one I struggled with writing. So feedback will be MOST welcome. Have a wonderful weekend!

~Love!


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 22

                A warm breeze reminiscent of home tickled the tips of Dorian’s mustache, _taunting_ him. It had been weeks since he’d told Fitzwilliam he intended to return home and ever since that day Home had been stalking him. Little things cropping up out of nowhere. The unseasonable heat, for one. The other day he had smelled cassia smoke, wafting from one of the noble’s apartments. Sera had offered him a cookie. It had been dreadful but the fruit in it was very like the sweets his nanny would sneak him when he was good. It was driving him mad.

Of course, the fact that he had not had more than a handful of minutes alone with the Inquisitor in this time was hardly helping. Fitzwilliam had suddenly been consumed by a hundred different projects. They were gathering resources for the coming fight with great alacrity, as if they could hear a countdown on the wind. If Fitzwilliam was not strategizing he was running missions or training with Leliana, or looking in on projects he had commissioned. Were it not for the fact that Dorian had watched the man hardly remember to eat or sleep he would think Fitzwilliam was avoiding him, because of what he had said.

He’d been sleeping in his own rooms these nights and found it very lonely. He was surprised by the aching in his chest when he woke to find the other side of the bed empty. And the nightmares… they’d been coming nonstop since their fight. They’d been coming so regularly that Dorian found he spent his time in them actively searching for the Observer. He’d realized after about a week what he was really doing – he was hoping the dreams had meaning. But the Observer never appeared. And the dreams never stopped. Dorian found himself waking in the dead of night, questioning his decisions, wondering what had possessed him to leave the man he loved behind, until it dawned on him he had not left. He was not in Tevinter. The leaving was yet to come. He could not tell which was worse.

And so now, Dorian walked the battlements, letting the warmth whip around him as he thought it through once more. Some of his reasons had been very sound. Fitzwilliam _did_ need to be at Skyhold. Dorian _did_ need to be in Tevinter. But there were other parts too. Parts that he now saw were foolish, even selfish. Perhaps it had been the time apart, or the dreams, or the sleep deprivation he was now suffering, but he could see now that his arguments had been lies. It wasn’t that he _needed_ to do this on his own. It was that he didn’t want Fitzwilliam to watch him failing. Dorian knew the odds, what had happened to the others, Magisters who had tried to change the Imperium as Dorian wanted to. The assassinations had been quick and ruthless. Dorian was likely walking into a drastic abbreviation of his life by returning with these ideals.

There was more. So many more things but the mage could not process them. He was too tired, his eyes scratching, his joints aching. He realized he was, once more, scanning the courtyard for Fitzwilliam. He missed him, and their time together had always been precious little. They lived with the possibility of death at every turn. He never knew which of their moments together would be their last and after what happened at Adamant Dorian had learned his lesson. He had _tried_ to talk to Fitz a dozen times, receiving little more than a “not now, I have somewhere to be” or “no, not tonight, too much to do.” The Inquisitor didn’t even seem angry at him, just distracted.

“Alright, Sparkler?” Varric asked from his left. Dorian jumped slightly, surprised but managing not to yelp.

“Fine,” he said gruffly.

“The Inquisitor,” Varric said slowly, carefully. The dwarf had to know what a delicate subject this was at the moment. “He uh… he’s been acting kind of odd, hasn’t he?” Dorian shrugged, looking at Varric askance, and affecting an unconcerned air. “Well,” he continued in a grumbly kind of way, “I don’t know how he is with _you,_ Sparkler, but with the rest of us he’s gone kind of… all business.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Varric sighed. “Fitzwilliam used to join us for a drink on occasion, or play a game of chess with Curly, or pull pranks with Sera, you know. And that was good. It reminded us all that the Inquisitor wasn’t a holy saint sent from Andraste, untouchable. He was just like us. But now he’s… well he’s sort of lost himself and I was wondering if you knew anything about that?”

Dorian grimaced. “It’s just like him,” Dorian huffed, “to throw himself into work when things don’t go his way.”

“Oh,” Varric said slowly, a hint of understanding lingered there, but Dorian did not dignify it with a response. “So maybe he just needs to have a little fun.”

Dorian looked down at the dwarf’s sly smile. “I’ve spent the last three weeks offering, Varric,” he admitted. “He says he doesn’t have time.”

“Well then,” Varric said, mischievous grin blossoming across his face properly, “I suppose we’ll just have to arrange it so he does, yeah Sparkler?”

The corner of the mage’s lip tugged upward involuntarily. “Alright,” Dorian said before he could change his mind. “I’m in.”

VVV

“ _Oh no, Inquisitor,_ ” Fitzwilliam grumbled in a mocking mimicry of Josephine’s voice. “ _There is nothing on the books today._ ” She’d been very polite, apologizing for the misunderstanding, and inviting him to enjoy his free day while she took care of a few matters that were “below his notice.” Of course a free day was the _last_ thing he wanted. He’d been filling his days on purpose, eaiting for Dorian to commit to an action. Or maybe just keeping busy so he wouldn't come to his senses snd go running into the mage's arms. After Josephine cleared him he made the rounds looking for things that needed doing. There were always things that needed doing, but today no one was letting him do them. He’d gone to Leliana next, anticipating more lessons or training, but she had claimed she was “too busy.” She was very apologetic also, naturally. Then he’d gone to Dagna, absolutely sure that _she_ at least would not turn him away. And he’d been correct. She stumbled over her words, and looked very uncomfortable, until _Harrit_ , of all people, had intervened and said he could not spare the dwarf just now if he was to fill the requisition orders in time for their tempering and testing. Given that the smith then noted how the fight with Coryphaeus might be any day now, Fitzwilliam could hardly deny him.

Now, he found himself wandering the grounds attempting to look like he had somewhere to go. He’d been doing that for long enough now, walking to and fro from chambers to war room to battlements to stables, that people were starting to wonder and watch. That wasn’t going to do either. He huffed irritably and looked around, trying to spot someone, anyone, with whom he might pass the time. He had been doing precious little of that as of late. He frowned, admitting to himself that he had pushed them all away. Drowned himself in his work. But it seemed they all had things to be doing, on this day where nothing needed the Inquisitor.

His eyes darted to the side, just managing to glimpse what seemed to be Iron Bull ducking into the tavern. Fitzwilliam straightened his back and marched after him. There was something that had been bothering him for a while now, and if there was nothing else for him to do but dwell on Dorian’s absolute selfishness then this would be preferable. Besides which, whatever the mage decided Fitzwilliam needed to know the answer to this.

He walked through the open tavern door and glanced around. Iron Bull’s axe rested in a corner near his usual seat but the Qunari did not fill it. Fitz chewed on his lower lip anxiously. If he wasn’t in here, he was likely on the floor above in his rooms. Disturbing the mercenary there was always a gamble. He considered waiting but decided against it. It was either go talk to Bull or drink – and it had only just gone past midday. That didn’t make it a less appealing option, merely a less appropriate one. The Inquisitor steeled himself and climbed the stairs.

He didn’t need to knock. Iron Bull was waiting, just before his open door, a knowing smile pushing up his eyepatch. “Hey boss,” he rumbled in that low voice of his, like so much rolling far-off thunder.

“H—hi!” Fitzwilliam said, unable to hide his surprise.

The giant, wall of a man laughed. “I’m gonna have Leliana up your training on concealing emotion, there, boss. You’re too expressive. You’ll make a terrible assassin.”

Fitzwilliam glanced around nervously to see if anyone had been in ear-shot, but the tavern had been nearly empty and no one seemed to be nearby. “How did you know that?” He hissed quietly. “That’s…”

“A secret?” Iron Bull asked with a smirk. Fitz nodded warily. “Safe with me, boss.” He waved a huge calloused hand toward the room behind him. “Wanna come in?”

Fitzwilliam hesitated. He didn’t like how Bull had taken over the situation. But there was that itch in the back of his mind. The one that held onto the questions. He needed to know. “Alright,” he agreed, and Iron Bull moved aside to let him enter.

The room was dark even in mid-day, having only the one small window, but it was clean. Surprisingly. He heard the door latch behind him, and the Qunari shuffling around, the scraping of something against the wood floor. Then Iron Bull sat on the bed, and gestured to a stool. Fitz sat on it. “What’s on your mind?” Bull asked. Right to the point. He was so direct for a spy, always had been.

Fitzwilliam considered what to say, how to phrase it, how to sound like it was a small thing, a curiosity. Then he remembered with whom he was sitting. None of that was going to work. So, instead, he took a page out of the mercenary’s book. “The night Dorian tried to… made advances at you,” he began, “you were kind to him. I need to know why.”

Iron Bull settled back a bit, bracing his hands on his knees and then leaning forward. “Is that so hard to believe?” He asked.

Fitzwilliam shook his head. “No,” he said. “But you two didn’t get along at first. And you weren’t exactly friends then either. Maybe getting friendlier, but you were clearly not okay with his actions. You could have been harsh. You could have thrown him out and come to me. You could have done a lot of things. And no one would have been surprised by them.”

“But I’m nice to the fop and that _is_ surprising?” Bull asked, laughing. “Is it because I’m Qunari or because I’m Ben-Hassrath?”

Fitzwilliam shrugged.

“You want to know why I told him what I told him, boss?” Bull asked, suddenly serious. Fitz nodded. The beast of a man took a long slow breath before he began. “There’s a lot of things people think being a Ben-Hassrath is,” he explained coolly. “But more than anything, what I do is watch people. Learn about them. Find out things about them that even _they_ don’t know. That was easy to do with Dorian. I knew what he wanted when he came up here. And I could have given that to him. You’re a reasonable man,” Bull said seriously. “You might have been upset with me for a day or two, but you’d have put blame where it was due. Problem is, I could see what that would do.”

Fitzwilliam furrowed his brow. “To Dorian?” he asked.

“Dorian isn’t my problem, boss,” Iron Bull chuffed. “I’m here under your employ. To seal the breech, to kill Coryphaeus. And if I let Dorian get away with what he planned I wasn’t doing my job.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Bull,” Fitzwilliam sighed. He ran his fingers through his hair anxiously.

“Not to you,” he agreed. “You’re too close. You can only see some of the pieces, not the whole board.” He paused then, looking seriously at Fitzwilliam’s face, that one critical eye boring into him. “You sure you want me to say this bit, boss?” he asked grimly. “You probably won’t like it.”

Fitzwilliam felt wary, but he didn’t hesitate. “Tell me.”

“Like it or not,” Iron Bull said slowly. “You needed Dorian. Well, you needed _someone._ You chose Dorian.” Fitzwilliam’s blank stare must have been telling. Bull grunted and continued. “Listen boss, you’re great. You’ve a good head for strategy, you don’t get blinded by the goal and forget that how you get there is just as important – sometimes more important, and you’ll just stare down a dragon! But… if we’re honest here… when it comes to taking care of _yourself_? You’re vashedan.”

Fitzwilliam struggled with the Qunlat for a moment. Vashedan meant… shit, didn’t it? Trash, maybe? Well that was blunt, but the Inquisitor could hardly deny that it was true.

“I’ve seen what power does to men,” Bull continued slowly. “When they take up the kind of authority and responsibility you did… well, if they’re alone it either corrupts them or it breaks them. Your heart is too good to be properly corrupted. So you were headed the other way.

“You needed someone to ground you. Someone who could hold you up when the weight of this work crushed you. You chose the mage,” he said with a shrug, “so it was my job to make sure he didn’t let you fall just because he’s a self-destructive maraas imekari.”

“So,” Fitzwilliam said slowly. “It wasn’t because you like him?”

Iron Bull tilted his head to the side, an amused twist to his lips. “We talkin’ friendly liking or…”

The Inquisitor sighed heavily. “Bull…”

He laughed, a low rumble that sent the spokes of Fitz’s stool shaking, and held up a placating hand. “Sorry, boss.” He chuckled once more before setting his face into a more serious expression. “Listen, I like the mage. For a mage he’s great. But if you’re askin’ me if I stopped his tantrum and bolstered his spirits just because it was the right thing to do? Then the answer is no. I did it because it was necessary.”

It took a while for Fitzwilliam to take that all in. It made sense, far more sense than Bull’s apparent altruism ever had. And even if he hated to admit it, the mercenary had a point. Without Dorian this would have all fallen apart. He thought he’d made it clear to the mage that all he had accomplished with the Inquisition was because Dorian had been here, seeing the man behind the Inquisitor. Loving him. He felt his breath catch and his throat tighten. He’d been keeping busy to ignore these very things. To push the ache in his chest, and the pulling through the bond away. Now it was all coming to the front. He let his head dip, his eyes fixating on a small knot in one of the floorboards.

Bull’s hand was on his shoulder then, so hot and huge that it covered half his back if it covered any at all. “I take it that’s not what you wanted to hear,” he said softly.

Fitzwilliam shook his head, trying not to let himself become overwhelmed by emotion. “No,” he managed after a time. “Not what I wanted to hear.” He then stood, Bull’s hand falling away as he did, and turned toward the door. “But maybe what I needed to hear.” He walked forward and grasped the latch. The door creaked open and Fitzwilliam paused. “Thank you, Bull,” he said quietly.

A heavy, mournful response followed him out as the door closed. “Welcome, boss…”

VVV

With dinner done the hall was surprisingly quiet. The earlier talk with Iron Bull had been helpful in some ways, but draining in others and now Fitzwilliam wasn’t exactly sure how he felt. He wanted Dorian to come to him and work this out.

The mage had approached him several times over the last few weeks saying he wanted to talk but there had been something about it that had compelled Fitzwilliam to turn him away. A feeling he couldn’t shake. Like Dorian wasn’t there to make amends, he was there to defend his actions. Naturally, he had expected to be waiting a while – Dorian was nothing if not stubborn and wool-headed – but he had _hoped_ it would have gone a little more quickly. Yet, each time Dorian managed to corner him Fitz was overwhelmed by something. It took him a few days to realize he was feeling it through the bond, whatever the off-putting feeling was. He still wasn’t able to put his finger on it. Regardless, it made him uncomfortable, and he always ended up giving an excuse and hurrying away.

And _now_ it seemed he had the one thing he _didn’t_ want – a free evening. So he walked the hall, looking for something to occupy his mind.

He found it in a red-headed dwarf. Varric had spotted him and was making his way over. “There you are!” He said by way of greeting. “I've been looking all over for you. You're just in time. We almost had to start without you.”

Fitzwilliam furrowed his brow. What was he talking about? Three weeks ago he would have responded with something witty but the time had worn on him. He felt annoyed, businesslike. “What, exactly, were you starting without me?”

He could see Varric’s smile falter but the dwarf recovered and turned, waving for Fitzwilliam to follow him. Seeing little choice for other distraction, the Inquisitor followed as Varric led the way to the barracks common gallery.  It was shockingly empty, except for the large table in the middle of the room and the seven people set around it, none of whom were the soldiers one might expect to see the barracks.

…

Dorian watched anxiously as Fitzwilliam came in. “Look who showed up everybody,” the dwarf announced. “Deal him in, would you Ruffles?” Varric had made sure to leave a seat open beside the mage, but the Inquisitor did not choose that seat. He chose the other, across the way beside the Lady Ambassador. Dorian could not help the feeling of disappointment that cropped up. It was soon overshadowed by sorrow as he looked at the man across the table. Fitzwilliam, it seemed, was content to ignore him, but it was more than that. He looked so tired, so sad, his eyes held none of his usual humor. They watched blankly as Josephine handed him his cards.

“I do hope I recall the rules,” she said playfully. She was very good, but Dorian could spot a hustler. He’d lost more than his fair share of money in games just like this one. Even his shirt once. _Once._ “It’s been ages since I played a game of Wicked Grace!”

Fitzwilliam looked at the cards on the table, not addressing any of them, seeming to be in a fog, or lost in his own thoughts. Dorian tried not to stare. Finally, Iron Bull was done waiting. He slammed his tankard on the table. “Are we playing cards or what?” He bellowed as the group jumped in surprise. His words seemed to inspire the others, though not to their intended purpose. 

“Are three drakes better than a pair of swords?” Cassandra asked, making a sound of disgust. “Ugh, I can never remember.”

Varric laughed, taking a drink. “Seeker,” he ribbed, “remember how I said 'Don't show anyone your hand?' That rule includes announcing it to the table.” Cassandra simply rolled her eyes.

“There’s a crown on his head,” Cole said dreamily, looking at his hand. “But a sword too. His head didn’t want either.” Dorian couldn’t help the little smile Cole’s comment pulled from him. It was a comment so like the boy, and it had so little to do with playing cards.

“Don’t talk to the cards, kid,” Varric said with a grin.

Cullen stood them, his chair scrapped against the stone floor as he pushed it back. “You seem to have enough people,” he said, unsure and awkward as anything. “I have a thousand things to do.”

Well that wouldn’t do, if Cullen left surely Fitzwilliam would follow. It seemed too easy an excuse for the Inquisitor to latch on to. Dorian had to do something. “Losing money can be both relaxing and habit forming,” he drawled mischievously. “Give it a try.” Cullen looked around the table for a moment, gaze lingering on Fitzwilliam. But seeing neither condemnation nor approval seemed to help. Dorian hoped the commander could see why they were having this gathering, now that Fitz was right in front of them. The man was not who he had been, the fight was breaking him. If they didn’t remind him of his humanity, and his friends, he would be lost to the mission. The concern on Cullen’s face as he sat back down and picked up his cards spoke volumes to anyone who was listening. The former Templar was just was worried as the rest of them.

“I’m glad you’re staying, Curly,” Varric said. “If any man in history ever needed a hobby, it’s you.” Cullen glared at the dwarf but it held no heat and after a moment he let out a subdued chuckle.

“Dealer starts,” Josephine said, shuffling the remaining cards awkwardly. “Oh, I believe I’ll start at… three coppers!” She looked around the table worriedly. “Do you think that’s too daring?” She asked and Dorian had to hide his smirk. Asking advice of the table was a rather obvious trick, as was the innocent act, but the others seemed to be buying it. If he played this right he could help Josephine positively clean up. “Maybe I’ll make it one copper,” she continued. “No… no, boldness! Three it is!”

Dorian struggled to hide his amusement. Bull, on the other hand, had a different reaction. “Seriously?” He cried, outraged. “Who starts at three coppers? Silver. Or go home.”

Of course everyone ignored that, most of them not wanting to lose their purse in one go. Dorian lifted his coins and tossed three coppers into the center of the table. “The bolder the better, right?” He smiled at the others, decidedly not lingering on Fitzwilliam. “I’m in.”

Blackwall nodded, adding his coins to the pile. “Sounds good.”

“Me too,” Varric added.

All eyes turned to Fitzwilliam, who had yet to say anything. He looked at the cards before him, still face down, then around the table. For a moment Dorian thought the man was going to stand and leave and put the whole evening to waste but then he smiled, and even if it didn’t shine the way it used to it was still wonderful to see. “I’m still new to this game,” he said cautiously.

“Don’t worry,” Varric said, “you’ll pick it up in no time.”

Fitzwilliam seemed to consider that, his smile widening, that playful twinkle Dorian was so accustomed to seeing finally winning out. “Okay, you win. I’m in, and I’m raising a sliver.”

Cullen sputtered, then objected, “You haven’t even looked at your cards!”

Varric laughed heartily. “Our illustrious leader is betting we’re bluffing!”

“You are bluffing,” Cassandra reminded him as Josephine began conducting the round.

For about an hour things fell into the familiar pattern of bet, raise, reveal, drink. Josephine was doing well, but not too well, not yet. Cole was just throwing coins in at random, and talking to his hand, and making observations about everyone. Dorian, for his part, was quiet like the others, too wrapped up in the waves of emotion he was feeling. He wasn’t sure which were his, and which were through the bond, but he knew they were both unhappy.

“So shiny!” Cole declared as he took his first hand. Out of pure luck, most likely. Cullen had fallen to about half of his coin and Dorian took the opportunity to throw out a quip.

“Remember,” he said in a low suggestive voice that drew Fitzwilliam’s eyes to him. The mage did not return the gaze, he directed his words to Cullen. “If you run out of coin, you can always bet your clothing.” And then he winked. He felt a sharp spike of anger through the bond. No, not anger… jealousy?

“What?” Blackwall said, looking slightly terrified. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“Is it my turn,” Cassandra interrupted. Dorian turned to his right to look at her and found exactly what he had suspected -- the Seeker was blushing. “Is this where I place a bet?” This many rounds and she was still asking for the basic mechanics. If Dorian didn’t know she was far too blunt he would think she was attempting to scam them as well.

Dorian reached over and patted her shoulder, “Yes, dear,” he said. “This is where you place your bet.”

The routine of the game returned for a short while, but as the drinks flowed everyone became more and more distracted. Finally, Cullen, slightly intoxicated, began regaling them with a story from his time in the order.

“You always have to give the new recruits a little shit, you know,” he said playfully, sloshing ale down the side of his mug as he gesticulated. “Not too much. Some people are cruel. That’s not what you want. Just some good-natured ribbing. Makes them feel included, like they are part of something because they have their own story.” Despite themselves everyone was listening raptly. Cullen did not often talk fondly of his time as a Templar, if he spoke of it at all. “You have to get a good measure of them, before you plan the prank. You don’t want to push them over the edge, don’t want to make them feel ridiculed.” He took another long pull from the tankard, then lowered it to the table and used the back of his hand to rub a bit of froth off the curve of his upper lip. “So this recruit,” he continued, more composed, every inch a storyteller. Dorian could see the admiration in Varric’s appraising gaze. “He’d thought a lot of himself, you know. Coming from a good family, having names to drop. He wasn’t a bad recruit, but he needed taken down a peg. So some of the other brothers and I told him there was an initiation, to be accepted into the inner circle.” Cullen paused and looked around the table, a smirk plastered to his face. “I don’t think I need to tell you, there was no initiation, as such.” A small round of amused chuckling sounded.

“So we told him that that night was a fasting night. No one in the dining hall. If he wanted to complete his initiation, he needed to sneak into the kitchens through the servant’s entrance and find the chef’s liquor stash. He was then to bring it to us in the hall.” Cullen lifted his drink to his mouth again, chortling as he swallowed. “Well, and I’m still not sure _how_ , he somehow managed to upend a pan of berry syrup onto himself. Completely covered in the stuff. Not wanting the crime to be traced back to him, the recruit took off his clothing.” From across the table Cassandra gasped and lifted her hand to her lips.

“And then what did he do,” Cassandra asked, leaning over, clearly enthralled.

“The poor recruit ran out into the dining hall in nothing but his knickers,” Cullen continue in a low, compelling voice. “And this... profound silence fell over the hall as seventy mages and thirty Templars all turned to stare at once. Then a slow round of applause began. And spread until every soul was on their feet. _A standing ovation._ ” Cullen said dramatically, his hand slicing through the air.  

“Oh,” Josephine gasped. “What did he do!?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” said Cullen mischievously. “After all, we had just intended for him to walk into the hall with a bottle and see how he handled it. And now, here he was, nearly nude, with no bottle, being applauded.”

“So what did he _do,_ Curly,” Varric asked, clearly eager.

Cullen chuckled again, leaning back in his seat. “Saluted. Turned on his heel. And marched out like he was in full armor!”

A great rumbling laugh issued from Blackwall as Cassandra giggled behind her hand and said, "He did _not_."

Dorian liked the story, and he had enjoyed the telling. He caught Cullen’s eye. “Good man,” the mage said with a wink.

Bull slammed his fist on the table, rattling it with his low rumble of amusement as much as his hand, and shook his head. “You’re shitting us, Commander,” the Qunari objected.

Varric shook his head. “No, no, that’s how you know it’s true, Pinky," the dwarf guffawed. “I could never put that in a book. Too unlikely.”

“I should have never told you I like Dawnstone,” Bull grumbled into his drink. “The new nickname is even worse than the last.”

“Worse?” Varric scoffed, pretending to be hurt. “I put a lot of thought into it.”

“Sure,” Bull groused. “It’s a note on my size _and_ my color preferences, I get it. You’re not as clever as you think you are, Varric.”

Dorian tried to hide his smirk behind his hand by rubbing his mustache and looking at his cards. The mercenary was just cranky because he was losing. Badly.

“You’re right,” the dwarf said. “I’m far too modest.”

Iron Bull grunted, ending the debate as Varric chuckled and Dorian turned his attention to Fitzwilliam. The Inquisitor had not had much of a reaction but now that he was looking Dorian could see the small smile, the way he looked around the table affectionately. He could _feel_ that affection growing at each person he passed… until his gaze slid over Dorian. The bond throbbed with something raw and painful. Just a flash of it, and then it was subdued. Still there, just pushed back. “I think,” Fitzwilliam said, finally speaking up, “it’s our professional storyteller’s turn.” He gestured to Varric with a smirk and the dwarf nodded. “But first, I think we need more drinks,” the man continued.

Cullen leapt to his feet, chair scraping loudly once more. “I’ll get them,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes Dorian had never noticed before. Perhaps it was just the drink. “Don’t start without me!”

Of course the dwarf did, and they were all laughing heartily at the tale by the time the Commander returned. “Aw,” he said disappointedly as he passed out drinks, “I told you not to start without me.”

“I’ve got one for you Cullen,” Fitzwilliam spoke up and Dorian turned, genuinely surprised. The man had clearly been enjoying the stories, but Dorian had never suspected that he might share one of his own. He was willing to bet it was full of trouble-making. Fitzwilliam seemed like he would have been a lovable scamp as a child. The Commander grinned and sat, folding his hands and resting his chin on them, attention fully turned to the Inquisitor. “Firstly,” Fitzwilliam began, taking a drink, “my aunt is known across the Free Marches for her love of Antivan opera. So, of course when a performance of ‘The Murder of Queen Madrigal’ opened, she made us all attend. As you can imagine a lad of thirteen years and his closest friends didn’t have much of an interest in going. We did, however, have a keen interest in a rabbit we had just captured that day in the garden.” Fitzwilliam continued, explaining to them, in great detail, the intricate dress which his aunt had worn, and forced Syrah to wear, as well as the entirely too dramatic formal wear Fitzwilliam and Merlot had been stuffed into. By the time he was done Dorian was _longing_ for the woman to get her comeuppance. “We made it half-way into the second act before we lost track of the little fluff-butted rodent. We crawled down the aisles searching for it, to no avail, and _much_ to my aunt’s chagrin. Finally, we spotted it, attempting to nibble at the edge of a bit of stage background. Merlot and I rushed from stage right and stage left, in the middle of the opera, in an attempt to corral the animal.

“Of course, animals being animals, the rabbit went neither right _nor_ left, but hopped right off the stage and _into_ my aunt’s bodice! She jumped up, flinging the white ball of fuzz a great distance into the air, back on the stage, and into Merlot’s waiting arms. For a moment there was shocked silence, and then cheering and applause erupted. Merlot and I, completely confused and terrified of the tanning our hides were bound to receive looked to Syrah, who stood in the well with the orchestra.

“ _Bow_ ,” she said in a harsh whisper. “That's what you’re supposed to do when they clap!”

“So,” Cassandra asked leadingly.

“So,” Fitzwilliam said with a laugh. “We joined hands and bowed. The show received all kinds of acclaim that season, but my aunt refused to speak to me for three months!”

Dorian could not help the laughter and praise which bubbled from him. This felt like the Fitzwilliam he knew, so at ease, so happy. “Well done, Amatus,” he had said before he even realized he was speaking. A sharpness spiked through the bond again, something mournful, and Fitzwilliam’s eyes dulled a little.

“Not bad,” Varric said, laughing boisterously and drinking deeply from his mug. "You don’t mind if I steal that one do you?”

Fitz smiled at the dwarf and shook his head, “By all means, feel free.”

Blackwall was laughing in a low continuous roll. “You…” he gasped out between breaths, “should tell stories more often, Inquisitor.”

“I like the part with the rabbit!” Cole said, beaming happily. “There should be more rabbits in stories!”

Fitzwilliam smiled affectionately at the boy. “I have a few more, Cole,” he said. “I’ll tell you another one soon.” That drew a goofy grin from the boy, only visible for the second before he bowed his head bashfully.

“Well,” Josephine said, shuffling the cards. “That was _scandalous._ It would ruin the Inquisition if anyone found out.” The she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell it again.”

…

It was getting late, but that didn’t matter. The game was nearly done. Most of them had lost their coin to Josephine, who now had a _considerable_ pile before her. Dorian had long since given up, preferring to watch Fitzwilliam and sip his drink. In fact it seemed pretty much everyone was willing to admit defeat.

“Deal again,” Cullen said with a smirk. Dorian shook his head at the commander, but he seemed he had no interest in taking advice. “I’ve figured out your tell, Lady Ambassador.” Maker, if Dorian didn’t know better he’d think the former Templar was _flirting._

“Commander!” Josephine exclaimed with mock affront. Her hand rested delicately on her chest, as if such an accusation had made her heart flutter. “Everyone knows a Lady has no tells.”

“You’re out of coin, Curly,” Varric reminded.

Cullen just leaned forward, eyeing Josephine, lips curled in a knowing smile. “I’ve my clothing,” he drawled. “Let’s see if your good fortune lasts one.” He held up a finger punctuating his words with it. “More. Hand.”

The flush that climbed past the high collar of Josephine’s ruffled dress was _not_ feigned. She cleared her throat delicately and attempted to compose herself. “Any other takers?” She asked breathily.

Dorian’s gaze roamed around the table. Everyone stayed silent.

Fitzwilliam shook his head, eyes wide, when Josephine glanced his way.

The Commander and the Ambassador eyed each other and the hand was dealt.

The round was short, brutal, and firmly in Josephine’s favor. In a matter of minutes Cullen was sitting, completely naked, hunched in on himself and looking decidedly embarrassed. “Don’t say a word, dwarf,” Cullen grumbled at Varric. Dorian couldn’t help but be appreciative of the parts of Cullen he could see. It seemed military training had served him well. Though, the mage had to admit, he preferred the leaner lines of Fitzwilliam’s shape to the bulky muscles the former Templar sported.

He felt a pinch in his chest at the thought. It was hard to ignore, but he tried.

True to form the dwarf laughed and ignored him. “I _tried_ to warn you, Curly,” he said.

“Never bet against an Antivan, Commander,” Josephine drawled as she collected her winnings.

Cassandra made a disgusted sound. “I’m leaving,” she said, eyes stabbing daggers between the unclothed Cullen and the far too pleased Josephine. Maybe the Seeker had picked up on the tension as well. “I don't want to witness our commander's walk of shame back to the barracks.”

“Well, I do!” Dorian said in reply, a faux laugh on his lips. He said it more because it was expected of him than anything. A way to hide inside of something familiar in the wake of what was soon to come.

One by one they gathered their things and left. Except Cullen, who sat in his seat until everyone had left or turned away. Everyone but Dorian. Dorian sat, eyes glued to the commander, daring him to leave. But the pleading look Cullen gave him was moving. Dorian smiled softly and took pity, finally standing and moving toward the exit.

As he left he noticed Fitzwilliam and Varric by the fire. Chatting, laughing. It was good to see. Dorian could even feel it there in the bond, a weight lightened. Their voices faded as he made his way out of the barracks. He considered that Fitzwilliam had had a long night, that he had been working too hard, that things had not been ideal over the past few weeks. He considered leaving their inevitable confrontation to another night. And as he considered those things he realized he was looking for excuses. He didn’t want to have the hard talk.

But he would have to. 

…

Dorian lingered outside the door to Fitzwilliam’s chambers, tapping his fingers against his leg nervously. The evening had been fun, but Fitzwilliam had been almost cold to him. It was clear that he could not let this go on any further. One way or another they needed resolution. So, Dorian waited. He had seen the Inquisitor talking with Varric as he left. Surely that was what was delaying him. When they were done he would come here and Dorian would see this through. He found himself chewing on his thumbnail, a habit he had long since shucked for how clearly it could be read. It did not do to show anxiety in the Imperial court.

Finally, footsteps. Dorian pulled his hand from his mouth guiltily and turned toward them just as Fitzwilliam seemed to notice him. The two stopped moving all together, merely staring at one another as if unsure as to what would happen next. Dorian decided to stand behind his earlier words “the bolder, the better” and cleared his throat. “I was hoping to steal a moment alone with you.” Maker, was that _his_ voice? He sounded so reluctant. There was a painful draw of silence as Fitzwilliam considered, and Dorian waited for the dismissal he had received every time before tonight. But, surprisingly, the man nodded and gestured to the door. They traveled wordlessly to the inner chamber. Once inside, Fitzwilliam turned to face the mage.

“I think,” Dorian began, voice tight, “we need to talk.”

Fitzwilliam nodded. “Yes,” he agreed curtly.

Dorian was trying to keep it together, really he was, but this was so hard. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull the man flat against him, to soothe the ache and the cold that had been plaguing him for weeks. It seemed, however, he was not quite _that_ bold. “I’d like to talk about me returning to Tevinter.” His voice went up at the end, making a question where he had not intended one. Fitz arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. “I’ve had a lot of time lately,” Dorian continued, “to think about it. I think I might have gotten carried away.”

Fitzwilliam eyed him critically, every inch the Inquisitor, before turning his back on the mage and walking to the couch. Dorian hesitated a moment before following, but he couldn’t sit. He paced on the carpet before the fireplace, trying to work out some of his nervous energy. It did not help that Fitzwilliam sat passively, silently observing – _waiting_. “I was… taken in by what I had learned,” Dorian began, unable to so much as look at the couch. “For so long going home was, well it was a fantasy. And suddenly here it was – possible. Possible in a way I could never have imagined.” Dorian rubbed the back of his neck, preparing to say something that would paint him in a poor light. “Fitz,” he sighed. “I… it was _my_ dream. The things I said about you taking over, beating Tevinter into submission… I see that for what it was, now. I didn’t want to share that dream. I was being selfish. Prideful.” He stopped his pacing, and hung his head, waiting.

When Fitzwilliam responded it was not the harsh anger he had expected nor sweet forgiveness he had hoped for. It was a cold calm and it cut all the deeper for its indifference. “And the part where you said you would give up anything?”

 _Maker, did I really…_ he kicked himself mentally. He had. He had said that. Practically said that he would leave Fitzwilliam behind. What could he say to that? What possible justification could he give? That was just it. He’d spent the last few weeks trying to justify all of this. Instead of doing better, being the man Fitzwilliam thought he could be. Or at least he once had. “That was unworthy,” he said quietly ashamed.

“Yes,” Fitzwilliam agreed, “it was.” He could hear the shuffle of Fitzwilliam’s clothing as he stood, could see him moving just out of the corners of eyes that burned with the effort of holding back the evidence of his emotion. “Do you remember,” the man continued, “after the trip with Cole? When I asked you what makes a place home?”

Dorian looked up, confused at the sudden shift in topic. He nodded slowly, the only response he could muster. Fitzwilliam was looking at him so intently, so focused. “Do you remember what I said home is to me?”

Dorian had to think back, it had been so long ago now, back when even the dream of having Fitzwilliam was a beautiful impossibility. But he could almost _hear_ the words still ringing in his ears. “I think home is where you feel safe. Where you can go when the weight of the world is crushing you,” Dorian said in a reverent voice.

Fitzwilliam nodded, walking nearer, stopping close, looking up the few inches which separated them in height. “And then,” he whispered, “I told you that home is when you are with people you trust.” Those brilliant blue eyes bore into him and Dorian felt that Fitzwilliam was seeing him for exactly what he was, no matter how foul. It terrified him. “Home is where people are honest, and true even when those truths are ugly.” Dorian bobbed his head, swallowing hard in an attempt to disguise the complex series of emotions raging through him. “Do you remember what I said next?” Fitzwilliam asked. Dorian shook his head, a movement so understated is was hardly perceptible, but Fitzwilliam seemed to have noticed. “I told you that when this was all over the place in the world I ended up didn’t matter to me. I would go wherever home is. You didn’t seem to understand me then.” Fitz looked at him, eyes searching for something. “Do you understand now?”

Dorian furrowed his brow. He remembered that statement now. He remembered how defensive he had become at hearing it. He remembered feeling something which he wasn’t ready to feel. Even now he was fighting to allow himself to recognize it. Then Fitzwilliam lifted his hand and pressed it to the mage’s cheek setting his nerve endings atingle. It felt like nothing so much as the pins and needles of a limb waking. The persistent ache in his heart eased making Dorian acutely aware of how used to the heaviness he had become. The sudden loss of it made him feel light-headed. He blinked, looking down into the clear pools of Fitzwilliam’s eyes. “You deserve a better home,” Dorian whispered. Yes, that was it. He understood now.

Fitzwilliam shook his head, an amused smile twisting his lips charmingly. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t spent the better part of the last few weeks wondering if that weren’t the case.”

“What changed your mind then?” Dorian asked cautiously, not sure it was an answer he wanted to hear.

“You did,” Fitzwilliam replied with a slight smirk. “Just now.” His thumb stroked small circles onto the mage’s cheek. “You hurt me, Dorian,” Fitzwilliam said honestly. “And we’re going to have this out.” Dorian nodded, his lips pulling into a frown. He had expected as much. This was too easy. There was no way Fitz was just going to kiss him and all would be forgiven. “But we’re going to hurt each other. It’s what people do. I was waiting to see if it was worth fighting for. I was waiting to see if you were my home.”

Dorian’s forehead wrinkled in confusion once more. “What?” He asked.

“I need to know you’ll be honest with me, Dorian,” Fitzwilliam explained passionately. “Even when the truth is hard. Even when you know it will hurt me. And part of that is finding your truth, isn’t it? Looking past your rationalizations and being honest with yourself. It wasn’t until you admitted to not wanting to share your dream that I knew this wasn’t over.”

Dorian nodded again and for a moment they stood there, looking at each other, just barely touching. “We’re going to row now aren’t we?” Dorian asked quietly. Fitz’s head bobbed in affirmation, looking somewhat resigned. “Would it be alright if I kissed you first?” Dorian asked shyly. He felt like an awkward youth asking like that. He would have scoffed at himself but for the way Fitzwilliam’s face lit up, beaming a smile that brightened the whole room.

“Please do,” he sighed. Dorian needed no more invitation. He leaned down, capturing the man’s lips almost hesitantly. It had been so long. He had forgotten how soft they were, how they fit together like pieces of a blacksmith’s riddle between his own, how his mouth tasted like the spicy leaves he liked to chew when he was too busy to eat. Dorian moaned, unable to help himself, and wrapped his arms around the man, pulling him flush against him and let the delicious warmth spread through him as the joy of finding where he fit filled the place in his chest which, until now, had been aching and jagged and hollow. The kiss lingered. It did not become deeper nor more intense, but it seemed that for long minutes neither man was willing to let go and come back to the problems at hand.

Eventually, however, reality won out and the kiss subsided, leaving the men with their foreheads pressed together, sharing air as they clung close, both ignoring that time would go on with or without them. Dorian sighed heavily but now it was with relief. His heart was lighter than it had been in weeks. This next part would be hard, but they would weather it. He knew he could face what was to come knowing it wasn’t an end. He heard Fitz make a reluctant sound briefly before he pulled away entirely.

The man moved to the side and poured himself a drink. He then sipped slowly, hissing through his teeth in the way he would when considering something serious. Finally, he moved and sat on the couch. Fitzwilliam propped his elbow up on the arm with a casualness that, for once, wasn’t forced. He sipped again, staring into the depths of the glass before speaking. “I suppose,” he said slowly, “what I need to know, above all other things, is if you are still of the opinion that you must leave me behind.”

Dorian sat on the opposite end of the couch. “No,” he said, somewhat reluctantly. “I still can’t see how to make it work with you there. But no, Amatus, I will not insist you stay.”

“Ugh,” Fitzwilliam scoffed. “Of course it will work. You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m not saying that,” Dorian sighed, exasperated. “I’m merely saying I don’t know _how_. You _are_ still the Inquisitor and regardless of what you say I’d like to think I know you well enough by now to know that you will not abandon the Inquisition as long as they still need you.”

Fitz made a noise of dissent, but did not argue with his assertion. “I will find a way,” he continued obstinately.

Dorian could not help but smile. Stubborn until the world fell down around his ears – that was his Fitzwilliam. “Well, I am not bold enough to bet against you,” the mage returned, his smile lingering.

“There is another question which has been plaguing me,” Fitzwilliam said slowly. He did not look up at Dorian. Instead, he watched the liquid amber in his glass, and Dorian marveled in the way the firelight glinted off it, making molten shards of scattered light fall upon the Inquisitor’s face. In this light the scar across his eyebrow stood out, a stark pale streak across his tan-colored skin. Maker, but it was hard to focus when all he wanted to do was pull him close and never let him go again. It was only the timidity of Fitzwilliam’s soft words that pulled him back to the matter at hand. “When you said you didn’t know how to make it work, I got the feeling you didn’t mean the logistics. Or, at least, not _only_ the logistics.”

Dorian worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Of _course_ he was asking this. It was the one thing Dorian didn’t want to admit, didn’t want to think on. Fitzwilliam had an infuriating knack for honing in on what most needed to be unraveled. Perhaps he was talking lessons with _Cole_ now. “No,” the mage found himself saying, “I was not talking about logistics.” His chest felt tight with anxiety. Uncomfortable, writhing, warmth so unlike the comforting heat he felt through the bond when he touched Fitzwilliam that it felt almost like a perversion of it.

“You’re afraid,” Fitzwilliam said suddenly, sounding quite surprised. His head whipped to the right, fixing the mage with a pointed stare. “I can feel it, just on the edges of my own thoughts, but I know it’s you. Why are you so afraid, Dorian?”

The mildness, the caution, Fitz had been using earlier was replaced by a searching gaze – the attention of a man solving a riddle. It unnerved Dorian. He felt the urge, buried somewhere deep, rooted in his very being, to say something witty and dismissive, but the scrutiny would not abate and he could not bring himself to say the words, to play the part. It felt as if he was trying to pull an arrowhead from his flesh, knowing, logically, it would be wiser to grit his teeth and push it clean through. _Afraid,_ he felt himself thinking frantically. _Why?_ His head was spinning. He felt drunk though he’d been careful to pace himself this evening. _Temptation._ The thought came, as it always did, sharp and unwanted. _Don’t give in._

When his eyes refocused he found Fitzwilliam, still looking at him inquisitively, but his brow had furrowed with worry. Dorian felt the words coming, words he did not intend to say, words he had kept hidden, even from himself. “I can never be happy,” he said his voice pitched low, mournful. It was almost halting – each word coming hard, a painful labor. “To be happy is to give in, to let go. To lose control.” He could see the understanding flickering in Fitzwilliam’s fire-kissed face but now he had started and could not be stopped. He jumped to his feet, pacing. “It was the Lenen'hima'sa,” he said, well aware he was ranting. His arms waved emphatically. “I lost control and I caused it, or at least I think I did. And now you will pay for that. Maybe forever. You can never be free of me and my carelessness caused that!” He hadn’t realized he was yelling until Fitzwilliam put down his glass and shot to his feet, reaching out to sooth him. The mage backed away palms out in a protective stance. “I gave in to temptation,” he spat angrily. Fitzwilliam flinched. “All those years of training, all my fine education, and for what? To be undone? By love of all things?” He made a disgusted sound and shook his head. “I failed you.”

His efforts to hold Fitzwilliam at bay were weak and ineffectual. Soon his warm hands were touching him, seeking every inch of bared skin. Dorian could feel the familiar tingle skittering across his flesh. The Inquisitor pulled the mage close and pressed their foreheads together. The sound of his breathing, slow and deliberate, so sharp a contrast to his own, was hypnotic and Dorian found himself mimicking it instinctually. “Alright?” Fitzwilliam asked when they were in sync. Dorian nodded once. “Good, because you’re a blighted fool, Dorian Pavus.”

His eyes shot open, and he pulled his head back to better look incredulously at the man to whom he had just confessed his deepest fears. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re an idiot,” Fitzwilliam continued as he let the mage go and took a step back. “A prideful, snobbish, pampered idiot.” He continued. There was no fire in his words, but nor was there humor. Dorian wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. “Oh sure,” he continued, “you’re brilliant, and handsome, and you have a fine bloodline and a dashing mustache, but none of that makes you qualified to decide what’s best for _me_. I am the only one who gets to do that.”

Dorian blinked. “I… uh… some of that sounded like a compliment?”

Fitzwilliam sighed heavily and ran his fingers through his hair. “Did it even occur to you that maybe the Lenen'hima'sa, though unexpected, is something for which I am grateful?” He paused, waited for Dorian to shake his head, to which the mage complied, and then continued. “No, of course you didn’t. You were too worried about being in control. Maker, Dorian, when will you learn that for all our efforts _no one_ ever has complete control?”

“Wha… well, you do!” Dorian quipped weakly.

Fitzwilliam actually laughed. “Me? _Me,_ Dorian? That’s ridiculous.”

“But the things you’ve done,” Dorian protested. “You’ve raised armies, saved empires, united enemies.”

Fitzwilliam tilted his head to the side, looking for all the world like a dog who had lost track of a thrown ball. “You think I did all of this _alone_?” Dorian shrugged. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but the great rolling laughed followed by a gasping, “You really are an idiot,” had certainly been low on the list of possibilities for which he was prepared. “Dorian, I…” he took a deep breath, his white teeth shining through a grin that split his face from ear to ear. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you. You were a part of me long before the Lenen'hima'sa joined us.”

Dorian felt frozen. Everything he knew about the world had suddenly stopped making sense. “You… you don’t mean that?” Dorian said sluggishly. Fitzwilliam did not dignify him with a response, he merely tiled his head and gave him a “you know better” look. “Honestly, Fitzwilliam,” Dorian continued, “you don’t have to say flowery things to appease me. You can be honest.”

“I am,” the Inquisitor insisted.

“Oh yes,” Dorian replied flippantly, “and I suppose if I had taken an arrow to the knee and asked you to wed me instead of being bonded you would have said yes?”

“No,” Fitzwilliam admitted and Dorian couldn’t help the disappointment that struck sharp as a pinprick. “I would have told you to ask me _after_ we beat Coryphaeus.”

Dorian blinked, not quite sure he had heard correctly. Disappointment was bowled over by confusion, disbelief, and a surreal feeling. “I.. you… a… _what?_ ”

Fitzwilliam came close again, hands reaching out, pulling the stunned mage close, reducing the space between them until they could only have been closer if they removed their clothing. Dorian swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He was lost in the deep pools of Fitzwilliam’s brilliant blue eyes. “I would have told you,” Fitzwilliam said slowly, “to ask me after. It’s terribly romantic to propose on the eve of a great battle,” he said with a smirk, “but I’d rather hear it knowing we had full lives ahead of us.” Dorian felt like he was moving through mud, not quite able to cut through what was happening to him.

“Kiss me again,” he managed, surprised at the deep lustful brogue of his words.

 

AN: Yes, yes I know, I am wicked and you hate me. I am, somewhat, sorry for the cliffhanger. Mostly I am sorry for the delay in posting. Between work, friends moving back after a long absence, the projects that come with owning a home (and helping friends with their own!), romance, and the DA: Big Bang I have been a busy busy bee!

Thank you for all your comments past and, hopefully, future.

Birthrights _is_ winding down. It’s a bittersweet feeling. I’m on the verge of saying “thank yous” and “goodbyes” but I won’t. I’ll save them for the last chapter and even then it will be more of a “See you soon” because Birthrights may be ending but the Makers series lives on!

Please do write down all of your thoughts and share them with me if you feel inclined.

~Love!


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 23

_Previously on Birthrights:_

_“Kiss me again,” he managed, surprised at the deep lustful brogue of his words._

Fitzwilliam smiled softly and leaned in, pressing his lips to the mage’s. Something clicked, like a key sliding into a lock. A throbbing flooded the bond, something deep and significant and amorphous. Fitz could feel it pulling them tighter, closer. When he pulled back from the kiss they were panting, clinging to one another, fingers digging into skin and silk.

“Forgive me,” Dorian pled.

“Forgiven,” Fitzwilliam gasped, crashing his mouth down upon the mage once more.

They stumbled toward the bed shucking clothing as they went, peeling and throwing. Shirts and collars and shoes made a breadcrumb-path marking their progress across the room. They fell to the bed in a heap of naked, tangled limbs. Dorian moaned softly against his lips as they pressed together, hot flesh and hard muscle stirring as they moved.

“Maker, I missed this,” Fitzwilliam panted as Dorian made a trail of sloppy kisses from his neck to his navel. And he had. He’d spent more time than he cared to admit to wondering if he would ever feel Dorian’s touch again. Now that he finally was, the sensation of the mage’s hands on his hips was making him light-headed.

Dorian mumbled his agreement, mustache tickling momentarily before he lowered his head and took Fitzwilliam in his mouth. The Inquisitor was overcome by sensation, his hips rising to meet the touch as he clenched his eyes shut and fisted his hands, back arched in pleasurable agony. It had been _too_ long. If Dorian kept this up he’d never get to where he wanted, no, where he _needed_ to be.

“Dorian,” he panted. The energy he needed to exert to get the words past his lips was costing him dearly. Not that the mage was _helping_. Dorian moaned around the hard length in his mouth, sending the vibration careening through Fitzwilliam’s body, before relaxing the wet muscles of his throat and pulling the man even deeper.

Fitzwilliam cried out, writhing on the bed, simultaneously longing for more and wishing for reprieve. One of his hands dropped down, caressing the mage’s shoulder and neck. He couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t look down. He knew what he would see – a messy-haired mage _devouring_ him with hedonistic delight, eyes sparking with mischief and power. _Andraste_ , even the thought of it had his cock twitching for relief.

He cleared his throat, steeled his will, and tried again. “Dorian please,” he choked out. “I want you.” He could feel Dorian’s chuckle.

The mage bobbed his head a few more times but then, mercifully, withdrew. Fitzwilliam dared to open his eyes now and looked down to find Dorian leering up at him, smirking, and licking his lips like a barn cat that had made its way into the milking shed. “And how,” he purred as he stretched back out, his body lengthening so he could press his lips close to Fitz’s ears as he whispered, “do you want me, Amatus?”

Fitzwilliam quivered. How was he supposed to answer that when his head was spinning with possibility? They were past a point of no return now. There would be no love-making – they were both too far gone, it had been too long, their need was too great. Dorian busied his mouth on Fitzwilliam’s neck as he pondered, which certainly did not aid the process. When the mage dropped his left hand down and playfully brushed his fingertips across the hot flesh of his shaft Fitz growled the first words that came into his head, “Get on your knees.”

Dorian pulled back, looking at him as if he might have been replaced by someone who looked very much like the Inquisitor, but was obviously _not_. Fitz wiggled out from underneath the mage, gesturing impatiently. Dorian blinked again, clearly surprised by his forwardness, but seemed to get it together enough to do as asked. He positioned himself with his backside facing the Inquisitor, using his arms for support. Fitzwilliam didn’t leap into action right away, as he so desperately wanted. He, instead, reached out, hands smoothing across the mage’s back, ridged with hard muscle that trembled beneath his touch. He leaned over, pressing his hips against Doran’s bottom, his hard shaft nestled between the mage’s buttocks, and dropped sweet kisses along his spine. Dorian made soft sounds of pleasure and eagerness, wriggling enticingly.

After a few minutes Fitzwilliam could delay no longer. “Get the oil,” he rasped, his voice gone deep and rough with want.

Dorian positively _scrambled_ to fulfill the request, sprawling out and reaching for the chest to the right of the bed. The effort offered Fitzwilliam the most glorious view of Dorian’s cock, hard and red and slick with want. Dorian recovered the vial with minimal fumbling and passed it back, fingers unsteady. It was clear the mage was just as bad off as Fitz was. He decided to take mercy on his lover, and _himself_ , by not drawing this out any longer than absolutely necessary.

He poured the oil onto his fingertips as Dorian resumed his position, presenting himself eagerly. As much as the Inquisitor wanted to slick up and slide home he also didn’t want to cause the mage _too_ much discomfort. He drizzled some oil down the crack of Dorian’s ass, eliciting a sinful moan from him, before replacing the cork and setting the vial down. His fingers pressed against Dorian, dexterously seeking ingress. Dorian was tight, almost clenched, and Fitzwilliam found himself making soothing sounds, his free hand stroking across the man’s flank, his slippery fingers moving in tiny circles, massaging, coaxing him to relax and welcome the intrusion.

Finally, he felt the supple olive skin go slightly slack and he slid his middle finger inside, moving in even, unhurried strokes. Dorian’s hands clenched the bedding between his fingers, but his hips rocked in time with the Inquisitor’s hand. He waited until a low pleading noise was pulled from Dorian’s throat and before adding his index finger, curling the two together to make the mage shudder and then working them apart, stretching making him ready to accommodate the Inquisitor. To Fitzwilliam’s surprise and credit, he didn’t rush this part. His cock twitched and dripped as he looked down at the man before him. He was incredibly aroused by what he was taking in – Dorian, prone, in a lordotic position, deep guttural sounds of desire and delight, muscles hot and snug around him, flesh pressing back against him unrelenting in the need for contact, and the scent of the oil, and citrus, and spice, and the underlying musk that _was_ Dorian. It was driving him past the point of control.

“Fitz,” Dorian was entreating over and over like some kind of prayer. How long had he been chanting the Inquisitor’s name? 

“Yes?” he responded thickly.

“Please,” Dorian begged. “Please, please.”

Part of Fitzwilliam wanted to torture him, make him say exactly what he wanted, word by bloody word. But that bit of him, the cerebral bit, was no longer calling the shots. He pulled his fingers free and fisted his cock in his hand, spreading the excess oil over it and provoking a sharp hiss in the process. A moment later he was abutting the glistening circle of Dorian’s entrance, practically panting with anticipation. And then he was sliding home, the canal so scorching and tight that it was all he could do to not collapse atop the mage as he groaned a long drawn out “fuuuuck” through a clenched jaw.

Dorian was gasping wordlessly under him, his body already convulsing. The Inquisitor could not bring himself to impose the measured pacing he had planned. His hands grabbed Dorian by his hips as he slammed into him. He couldn’t help it. He was driven by a wild, primitive need to spill himself inside the mage. His pelvis surged forward, hard and fast, rocking the bed and pushing Dorian up its length. The mage was forced to put his chest flat against the mattress and stretch his arms out before him to brace himself against the hardwood of the headboard so he had enough leverage to push back against the onslaught. 

“Venhedis,” Dorian moaned, his hips bucking with nearly violent force. Even so he was still losing ground to Fitzwilliam. “Fuck, Fitz,” he babbled. “Ah, fuck.”

Fitzwilliam felt the pressure building in him, the familiar fire in his veins spreading as the tension coiled tight. He wasn’t going to be able to hold it back for long and Dorian’s steady stream of curses, and affections wasn’t helping. They were going right to his groin. “Dorian,” he purred. It came out rich and sluggish, like sugar syrup. He felt the mage’s entire body quake at the sound of it.

He continued his thrusts, though they were becoming more and more staggered and wild, until he felt Dorian’s muscles tensing, pulling taut like a bowstring. Suddenly, he was practically vibrating under him, begging for him never to stop, and to make it end, and to go harder and faster. “Fitz, _please_ ,” he sobbed, voice cracking, completely overwhelmed with sensation. “Pleasepleaseplease…”

It took the Inquisitor several long moments to realize why he was pleading like this. He’d never seen Dorian climax without direct manipulation of his manhood, perhaps he _couldn’t_. And if that were so then Dorian was trapped, teetering on the edge but unable to fall as both his hands were require to keep his head from ramming against the top of the bed.

In an instant, Fitzwilliam sent the Mark sparking to life, green light bathed them, he pressed it to Dorian’s bare backside and focused, channeling the energy forward, imagining it wrapping around his length, coiling snugly and pumping as a hand would. He could feel it in the bond, so much more intensely than anything they had yet shared, and Dorian then shattered. He screamed his release, cock shuddering out rope after rope of seed, ass clamping almost painfully around the Inquisitor. And then Fitzwilliam was seeing white as he felt himself lose control of everything and fall apart. His body operated by animalistic instinct, rutting and writhing. The power in the Mark exploded around them, smothering them in the emerald glow. His throat was raw from the force with which his pleasure pulled cries from it, and he fell, cock still spilling his seed deep into his lover, pulsing fiercely, emptying.

When he blinked the blinding brightness back he found he’d gone entirely slack atop the mage, stretched out across him. Their hands had sought each other, entangling, stroking, and squeezing comfortingly. “I love you,” Fitzwilliam heard himself saying. “I love you. Maker, Dorian, I love you.” He vaguely wondered how long he’d been performing the mantra, but Dorian didn’t seem to notice. His face was pressed into the mattress, his body convulsing slightly. Distantly, Fitz could make out mumbled words. He prised himself free and rolled onto his side, pulling Dorian with him and clutching him close, the mage’s back molded to the contour of his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he was whispering, still trembling. His breathing was rapid and shallow, but he didn’t seem to be crying. “I’m so sorry, Fitz. Never again. Don’t part from me. Not ever.”

Fitzwilliam pressed soft kisses to every inch of skin he could reach without reducing the quality of his embrace – back and shoulders and neck and head and arm. “Shhhh,” he whispered. “Don’t fret. I’m here.” That had been extraordinarily intense. Dorian’s reaction had been surprising but it was also understandable. He waited patiently for him to come down.

Eventually, Dorian calmed, his body becoming placid, his breathing becoming even and deep, and he turned to face the Inquisitor. Fitzwilliam smiled, brushing Dorian’s hair from his face and kissing him sweetly.

“All right?” he asked the mage, when their lips parted.

Dorian managed a small smile and nod.

Nothing else was said. The few waking moments they had left were spent on kisses and touches and long lingering looks of pure adoration. And then the darkness of slumber took them, tangled, as they were, around limbs and bedding.

VVV

When they woke the next morning, naked and wrapped around each other, the sun was too bright. Fitzwilliam couldn’t be sure, of course, but he suspected there had been more colluding to assure Dorian and the Inquisitor had time to themselves. Generally, at this late hour of the morning, he’d been to three separate offices. For once, however, he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He let sleep take him again.

When he woke later it was because Dorian was shuffling around the room. Fitzwilliam rolled over, observing him with a sleepy smile. “Looking for something?” he inquired.

Dorian turned toward him, a smirk pulling his mouth upward at the corner. His hair was tousled, his mustache askew. “We overslept,” he informed, pulling his trousers up.

“Yes,” Fitz agreed, rolling onto his back and stretching. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Quite wonderful,” Dorian chuckled in agreement. “However, Leliana has informed me that the council has rather important news to discuss with you.”

Fitz made a whiny sound, rolling out of the bed and onto his feet. He stretched once more, reaching his fingers toward the pitched ceiling and going up on his tiptoes. He glanced at the mage from the corner of his eye and found just what he had hoped for, Dorian was watching him with an appreciative glint. Maybe if he played his cards right he could convince Dorian they could stay in for a _little_ longer. He prowled toward his gentleman-love, wearing only his smile. He pressed the palm of his hand to the muscle of Dorian’s chest looking up at him from under his eyelashes.

Dorian _laughed_. Fitzwilliam furrowed his brow. “Oh no, Amatus,” he said with a smile. “That’s not going to work. As alluring as your charms are, I told Leliana I would have you up, dressed, and in the war room before the midday bells.”

“Oh,” Fitz purred, “I’m _up._ ”

Dorian gave him a reprimanding look. “First of all, no you aren’t,” he said with a pointed look downward. “And secondly,” he said, returning his gaze to Fitz’s eyes. “I’m far too terrified of our Spy Master to go back on my word. Now, clothing.”

The Inquisitor let out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine,” he groused, shuffling dejectedly to his wardrobe. “But you’re going to regret this missed opportunity Dorian Pavus!” he called over his shoulder.

“Yes, yes,” Dorian said dismissively. “ _Clothing_.”

…

There had been food waiting for him in the war room and thank the Maker for it. His council even let him get in a meal’s worth in him before their patience ran out and they began anyway. He was woofing down some cheese as Cullen explained the situation. Wait, what was that the Commander had said? “Sorry, come again?” He asked.

Cullen smiled. “We’re ready to take the fight to Coryphaeus,” he repeated. “We have allies, armies, weapons – most of which are hidden in the Wilds but they are ready to mobilize at your command. All we need is his location.”

Fitzwilliam blinked rapidly, dropping the food in his hand and swallowing what was left in his mouth. “Really?” He asked, disbelieving.

Cullen chuckled. “Yes, Inquisitor,” he replied. “ _Really_.”

“We’ve been looking for his base since all this began,” Leliana pointed out, voice tight with frustration. “With _no_ success.”

“His dragon must come and go from _somewhere_ ,” Cullen insisted, looking for all the world like hiding a dragon ought to be an impossible feat. Though, he did have a point. The Commander looked to Morrigan, as if she might know where dragons burrow.

“Don’t look at me,” the Witch of the Wilds scoffed bitterly. “The Inquisitor is the one with a head-full of forgotten knowledge.” She sounded a _bit_ like a petulant child. Just a bit.

“Perhaps we could send scouts to plot sightings and triangulate its position?” Fitzwilliam suggested as he resumed munching.

“What about the deep roads?” Josephine suggested. “We could send word to Orzammar, send envoys to –” She cut off as the Inquisitor’s mark sparked to life, green and angry.

Fitzwilliam dropped the wedge of cheese upon which he had been snacking and stood, staring at his hand, eyes wide disks of surprise and apprehension. It was clear to them all _he_ wasn’t responsible for its current activity. Confusion and concern were palpable presences in the war room – until they saw the bright flash from the sky outside. They turned to look out Skyhold’s stained glass windows. The clouds were coalescing into a whirlwind in the sky. The mark had been trying to warn them.

“It seems,” Morrigan said, turning her gaze on the Inquisitor, voice much more calm than it had any right to be. “Coryphaeus is not content to wait.”

“He’s in the Valley of Sacred Ashes?” Fitzwilliam asked, disbelievingly.

Morrigan nodded. “You either close the Breach once more, Inquisitor,” she said firmly, her hard words were a call to action, “or it swallows the world.”

Josephine shook her head violently. “But that’s madness!” She cried out. “Won’t that kill Coryphaeus as well?”

Cullen and Leliana exchanged worried glances, as if having a secret debate as to who would make the next point. He wasn’t sure if Cullen had won or lost but it was he who spoke up, “Inquisitor, we have no forces to send with you. We must wait for them to arrive from the Arbor Wilds.”

Fitzwilliam nodded. “He knew that. That’s why he’s attacking now. This is a desperate gamble but the odds will only put him even further out of favor if he hides long enough for us to gather those forces.” He looked out the window over the valley. Lightning struck the hills, emerald and dangerous. “Right, well then, no time to waste. Cullen, gather what men we do have. Put the Chargers at the front against the heaviest hitters, the mages behind them should be working on taking down demons, I’ll close rifts as I go.” He was already turning to run from the room. “We’re going down there and taking the fight to him!”

He was running to his chambers when he spotted Dorian. The mage looked worried and rightly so, he supposed, but they couldn’t talk here – they’d cause a blighted panic. Instead, he motioned for the mage to follow him as he jogged into his rooms. Dorian entered behind him a moment later.

“Fitzwilliam,” he asked. The Inquisitor was busy gathering his armor. “What’s going on?”

“Coryphaeus,” he said, pulling the straps on his thighs and calves tight. “He’s in the basin. We’re out of time.”

Dorian nodded silently, seeming to realize there wasn’t a moment to spare, and headed to the corner where his own armor rested. It remained unmoved since the mage had left it there and told Fitzwilliam he wanted to return to Tevinter. It seemed no worse for the wear, however. “I’m going with you,” he shouted back to him.

Fitz pulled a leather jerkin on. “Dorian –” he said but the mage cut him off.

“You’re going to argue this _again_?” He growled incredulously over the tinkle and rattle of buckles being fastened. “I’m going! Nothing you can say is going to keep me from your side today.”

Fitzwilliam smiled, clasping his baldric about his waist and sliding the daggers into their scabbards. Dorian was nearly into his armor already. Fitzwilliam had been quick, but, to be fair, the mage’s armor was simpler as he was not in range of melee combat as often as Fitz. The Inquisitor pulled on his boots and began lacing them. “That’s not what –” he tried only to be cut off again.

“I said no, you nug-headed idiot. I don’t care if you _are_ the Inquisitor,” he yelled. “Unless you order me under guard you’re not stopping me.” He was approaching Fitzwilliam now, closing the gap from across the room.

Fitz sighed and used the time to finish tying off his boot, then stood when Dorian’s feet stopped in front of him. “Don’t say a word,” Dorian said warningly.

Fitzwilliam shrugged. _Well, if he won’t let me talk…_ He reached out, tangling his hands in Dorian’s robes and pulling the mage firmly toward him. Dorian’s eyes went wide as their lips met. The kiss was fast and full of vigor and when they parted both were grinning. “I wasn’t going to tell you to stay away, you pampered poof,” Fitz said. His words carried a kind of energy and excitement he couldn’t shake. “There’s no one I’d rather have by my side.”

Dorian grinned stupidly and they kissed again. Thunder boomed outside, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand. “Let’s go get this son of a darkspawn,” Dorian smirked.

“Isn’t he technically the _father_ of darkspawn?” Fitzwilliam quipped as they ran down the stair toward to courtyard.

He couldn’t see it, but Fitzwilliam was pretty sure he could _hear_ Dorian rolling his eyes when he said, “Now’s not really the time, Amatus!”

VVV

There was a moment there where Dorian had been sure he was going to die. He supposed it was right about the time the Inquisitor had banished the ancient magister back to the Fade, causing the floating hunk of land on which they stood to plummet earthward. He’d lost track of Fitzwilliam in the fall. The mage, himself, seemed to be quite well. Bruised and cut for sure, but nothing was broken or pierced. He supposed it could have been significantly worse. He struggled to his feet and began scanning for Fitzwilliam as he trudged. He was finding it, admittedly, rather hard to move. He found pretty much everyone _but_ the Inquisitor. It could be argued, perhaps, that some of them had found _him_ , but to the void with that, he was busy.

He had to admit he was getting worried. Everyone was here now, excepting Solas and the Inquisitor. The faces of his fellow party members confirmed his suspicions – they shared his concern. He _knew_ Fitzwilliam lived, could feel him through the bond, though it was weak. After several failed searches his mind began to betray him. Perhaps he _didn’t_ feel him in the bond. Perhaps Dorian was imagining it. Feeling what he wanted to feel. He was starting to wonder if he could trust his own mind. It was Cassandra, surprisingly who broke first, “Inquisitor,” she screamed, cupping her hands around her mouth to direct the sound. “Are you alive?”

“Are you crazy?” Bull growled, forcibly pulling the Seeker’s hands down and clamping a huge hand over her mouth. Well, really he was, just using two fingers. Were he using the whole hand he could have covered her entire head and smothered her. “We don’t know if there are any demons or red-lyrium Templars left. You could be advertising our position.”

Cassandra made a disgusted sound, behind his hand. The mercenary laughed, let her struggle for a moment, and then freed her. “You listen to me you druffalo of a Qunari – ” but she cut off and spun, as they all did, when they heard footsteps on the cracking stone staircase. Dorian focused through the mist and dust. A wind kicked up, cool and crisp and the murk cleared. There, striding down, bloodied and beaten but _alive_ , was Fitzwilliam. Behind him he could hear the others.

“Victorious,” Morrigan gasped, voice tight with pain as she clutched at her ribs. “What a novel result.”

“And the sky is healed,” Cole said, wonder in his words. “Healthy. Whole! There’s just that left to remember.”

Dorian knew the boy was referring to the blue aurora moving in waves across the night sky, but he couldn’t be bothered with that. Fitzwilliam descended the last stair and Dorian moved toward him, suddenly thrumming with vigor. “And you’re alive,” he said striding forward more cock in his step than there ought to be with all his aches. “And I’m alive,” he smirked, stopping before Fitzwilliam. “Incredible, isn’t it?” He asked. But he did not give the man time to answer. Dorian crashed their lips together, kissing the Inquisitor before their colleagues, the Maker, and anyone else who might happen to be looking. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about Varric’s low whistle, or Sera’s gagging, or Cassandra’s huff, or the eyes of the strangers. He cared only for the warm wet slide of Fitzwilliam’s lips against his, the tugging on the bond, as if someone had wrapped a rope about them and started pulling it snugly, and the feel of his skin on his own.

He had no concept of how much time had passed when they parted, foreheads pressed close together, his hand resting about Fitz’s neck holding him near. “Maker,” Dorian sighed giddy from happiness, relief, and the adrenaline of the fight, “you’re never getting rid of me now.”

“Perish the thought, Serah,” Fitzwilliam replied sweetly. An unbridled smile pulled his lips up to reveal his shinning white teeth. They stood like that, staring at one another, star-struck that this moment was happening. That they _lived._

“What do we do now?” Cassandra interrupted.

For a moment there was silence. Then Dorian stepped to the side and turned to face the others so the Inquisitor could address his forces and friends. Fitzwilliam took the mage’s hand in his, squeezing it, smile lingering, before returning to address those gathered before them. “We go home,” he said loudly, voice a victorious boom echoing in the quiet of the destruction. “We go back to Skyhold.”

 

 

AN: Hello darlings! I’ve missed you. I know chapters have been far between but here is 23! And after than there remains but one more chapter in Birthrights.

Things have been trying on my end. Some setbacks have happened in my personal life. But it has been wonderful to have this series to share with you. You’ve been lovely.

Part 1 of the _Makers_ series will have reached its conclusion. Part 2 will be posted on May 25 th as part of the Dragon Age Big Bang! I’ll remind you again in the last chapter, next week. It will be posted on my account, so if you’re following me you should see a notification for it.

As always I enthusiastically encourage you to comment! I know a lot of you read this, and only a few comment. I appreciate them all! Long-time commenters, newbies, all of you. I promise I am gentle, and appreciative, and I always respond to at least one comment by user per chapter. I’ve met more than one of you in online chat to discuss theories! So go on, leave a comment :)

Have a great week!

~Love!

 

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

All around them the world was rubble. Stone and dirt and blood, the detritus of battle. Though there was debris as far as the eye could see he only had eyes for a single piece of wreckage. Solas fell to his knees. The ruined orb lay before him, splint cleanly in twain. He lifted a half and, finding it lifeless, hung his head, mournful. He felt so defeated. Behind him, the Inquisitor moved, alive.

“Solas?” He heard him calling. The Inquisitor’s voices sounded muffled, far away, though he was right behind.

“The orb,” the elf choked.

“I’m so sorry,” Trevelyan said. He actually believed the man. That was the thing that had led Solas to follow him, trust him, even open up to him about the old ways. He was always sincere when it mattered. It was a rare quality to find. “I know you wanted the orb saved.”

Solas nodded slowly, looking at the marked sphere, now nothing more than decorative stone. The power had gone somewhere. Perhaps it had returned to the fade. Perhaps it fled into the world. After all, one could not destroy magic. So it was somewhere. “It is not your fault,” Solas said. “You have done everything you could to help me. I will got forget it.” He stood, dropping the half-sphere and turning to face the Inquisitor.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” Fitzwilliam asked. Solas found himself smiling despite it all. Ever-vigilant, the Inquisitor.

“It was not supposed to happen this way,” Solas admitted. It was a tribute to the man before him that for a brief moment he considered telling him everything. Trevelyan would be understanding, helpful even, if he came right out with it and confessed his secrets. He met the Inquisitor’s gaze, those eyes which had been so heavy with the burden of Coryphaeus, and saw, for the first time, a weightlessness in them. Freedom. He could not take that from him. “No matter what happens,” Solas said evenly as he reached out a hand and clasped the man’s shoulder, “I want you to know, you will always have my respect.”

The Inquisitor nodded respectfully, though his brow furrowed in confusion, and opened his mouth to say something. The words died on his lips when they heard people calling for him. Their worry filled the air. Solas dropped his hand, Fitzwilliam turned and walked toward the voices leaving him behind.

Solas watched as he greeted them and felt a deep sadness at all the loss this day would bring him. The old ways, the orb, his friends. It was all lost. But there was some solace in seeing the relief on their faces, the joyful exuberance of Dorian embracing the Inquisitor, the loud laughter of the Qunari. He paused, committing that moment to memory. Then he blinked and left, sliding away in the chatter and confusion. He had an old friend to meet, but first an important stop.

…

Solas walked the fade-medow to the manor. He had been unable to check back until now. The first visit had been dangerous enough and it only grew with each passing day of the ancient magister’s reign. With Coryphaeus tearing holes in it, the fade had become dangerously unstable. Now he walked right up to the huge stone doors. They were cracked, parts of the building crumbled. Windows were broken. He pushed on the door and it crumbled beneath his fingers turning to sand.

It did not bode well.

He entered the building and his footsteps echoed. The walls were lined with cell after cell. Walls and doors and windows of glass. The entire interior, a wavy, flawed, green glass. Some of it was shattered, some marked with the tell-tale spider web cracks of impact. He went to the first cell, the door lay open, but undamaged. He looked in.

He moved to the next. This door was shattered on top, sharp and jagged remains left the door from floor to waist. He leaned over it into the dimly lit interior.

And another. A fourth. A fifth.

Empty. _Empty._ _Empty!_

Solas ran down the halls and up the stairs, peering into every small room. When he reached the last, and found it, too, totally barren he grabbed a shard from the floor and hurled it. A guttural scream of rage bounced hollowly off the vacant walls, mingling with the tingling of shattered glass. He sat heavily on the floor, panting. He had known this day was coming, but he was supposed to have more time. All of Coryphaeus’s interference had exacerbated the situation. Left behind cracks. Cracks they had exploited.

Eventually, he stood, waved his hand, and made his way out of the fade, opening a portal into an expanse of lush meadow. He walked the vibrant spring grass of the waking world once again. Before him stood a woman, hand outreaching, manipulating the magics of the old Eluvian. She paused as he approached.

“I knew you would come,” she said. She dropped her arm and looked back over her shoulder at him. “You should not have given your orb to Coryphaeus, Dread Wolf.”

His heart ached, his voice cracked. “I was too weak to unlock it, after my slumber.” He approached. “The failure was mine. _I_ should pay the price. But The People, they need me…” He stopped close to her, hurting. He wished he had unlocked the orb, wished the prison had not crumbled. She touched his face, pulling him close, showing him kindness. She looked resolute. Ready. He dropped his eyes, squeezed them shut. “I am _so_ sorry.”

“I am sorry as well,” Mythal whispered, “old friend.”

Their eyes met, one last time, and then he took her. Ripped her spirit from her vessel and took it into himself. Her body went limp and he was forced to catch her as she fell. He lay her lightly upon the ground as the power filled him.

He would be ready. Whatever came next… he _would_ be ready.

VVV

            Fitzwilliam was done mingling. He was _done_. All these lords and ladies and dignitaries hoping some of his success and influence would rub off on him were making him weary. He rubbed his face, dodging yet _another_ noble, and made his way to the door to his outer chamber. His hand had just landed on the door, the rough wood a welcome sensation to his fingertips, when he heard a silky, slightly intoxicated voice, purr, “Going somewhere, Amatus?”

            Fitzwilliam turned around, took a step toward the mage, and tried to look innocent. Dorian smiled lopsidedly. “You know, I spent all night waiting on you,” he said, voice pitched low. “Drinking and watching you make your way around the room as Josephine ushered you here and there. And I thought, 'He'll come speak with you eventually Dorian. He has so much on his mind.'”

            Fitz smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “Do you need me for something?”

            Dorian smirked at him, nodding slowly. “I do,” he replied, mischievousness playing on his tongue.

            Fitzwilliam narrowed his eyes. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. “You know we have all the time in the world now, right?”

            Dorian chuckled. “You say that, but I’m not waiting until the sky splits open again!”

            The Inquisitor checked his amusement and said, “There’s rather a lot I still need to do.” It was a last ditch effort, and it worked.

            Dorian, pushed to the point of braking, positively _leered_ at him, all salaciousness and no subtlety, and drawled, “Oh, I _quite_ agree.” The mage lifted his hands to Fitzwilliam’s chest and shoved him lightly, forcing his back against the door, and he knew it was open it and enter or be snogged right there in the grand hall. So, they slipped inside.

            …

            Dorian stalked Fitzwilliam all the way until they were in the rooms proper before snapping the door shut and moving to pour them a couple of drinks. The little sounds of confusion and disappointment Fitzwilliam made behind him were _darling._

             “I was passing through the hall this morning, and a serving girl saw me and squealed,” he called over his shoulder. “Actually _squealed_. Dropped her laundry and everything. Such a mess,” he said, shaking his head. He moved forward, glasses of whiskey filling his hands, and gestured for Fitzwilliam to sit on the couch. “She was completely breathless. 'You were at the battle with the Evil One, weren't you?' I didn't even get a chance to answer.” Fitz sat, and Dorian passed him a tumbler before sitting across from him. “She hugged me.  _Hugged_  me. This is your influence!”

            He had meant it to sound chiding, but the man looked positively chuffed. He smiled as he lifted the glass to his lips. “That’s what happens when you’re a hero,” Fitz said pointedly.

            “Is it?” Dorian affected a tone of bewilderment. “Must be why it’s so unfamiliar. And you, my dear Inquisitor, who knew you were so familiar with the concept.”

            Fitzwilliam chuckled but didn’t take the bait. “You’re not fooling me,” he said as he rested the glass on his knee. “You’re having a ball.”

            Dorian rolled his eyes. “I don’t trust camaraderie,” he said gesticulating with his free hand. “All these people smiling, buying me drinks. It's unnatural.”

            “Coming from a man in _that_ outfit?” Fitzwilliam barbed. Dorian did his best to look positively outraged. Fitz grinned again and continued on, ignoring his performance. “Don’t worry, it never lasts.”

            “Oh,” the mage sighed, “I don’t know about that. _You_ they will remember. Me? One day I will be that bit of minutia they use to trip up historians.” He actually quite liked the idea, but Fitzwilliam did not seemed convinced, if his huff was any indication. “Mind you,” he admitted slowly. “I can't say I hate the notion of being 'The Good Tevinter.'”

            “You have been a great help,” Fitzwilliam admitted.

            Dorian blinked. Was the man truly _this_ exhausted? “What elaborate praise!”

            Fitzwilliam made an annoyed sound. “Maker, Dorian you know what I mean. Don’t make me walk on drakeshells with you too. I’ve been at it all evening with half the lords in Thedas!”

            Dorian choked on his whiskey and when he was done coughing he laughed. Fitzwilliam glowered, having picked up on his own, unintentional, double-entendre. “Yes,” Dorian managed through gasped breaths, eventually. “I know what you mean.”  He took a moment to compose himself and then said, “I’m just glad I managed to survive, rather unexpected all things considered.”

            Fitzwilliam nodded solemnly. “I’m happy you’re here, after all that’s happened…”

            “You expected me to die?” He asked, forcing Fitzwilliam’s eyes to go as big round as saucers. He started to object, but Dorian continued. “ _I_ certainly expected to die. It would have been,” he paused mulling it over. “Thematically appropriate,” he finished with a wry smile.

            Fitzwilliam grinned and shook his head. “You’re so dramatic.”

            “And you!” Dorian said wistfully. “You could have been a martyr! Oh, the songs they would have composed.”

            “There will still be songs,” Fitzwilliam reminded him.

“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “But they won't have the same gravitas, you know.” He sighed again, resigned. “I suppose we'll just have to be satisfied with being alive. And _together_.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Fitz said, grinning, and lifted his glass in salute. They sipped and Dorian enjoyed the warm burn of the liquor almost as much as Fitzwilliam’s hungry eyes on him. But suddenly that gaze soured.

“I know that look, Amatus,” Dorian said slowly. He put his glass on the stone floor and moved closer. “What’s wrong?”

Fitzwilliam avoided his gaze, fiddling with his glass. “I… well, that is…” he sighed heavily and said all in a rush, “Areyouleaving?”

Dorian smiled softly, took the glass and set it down, and retuned to hold Fitzwilliam’s hands in his own. “I was thinking of sticking around for a while,” he admitted.

Fitz’s head shot up, eyes seeking him out, examining his face for the truth of it. “You are?”

Dorian lifted his hand, allowing his fingers to card through Fitzwilliam’s brown-red locks. “Tevinter lacks the presence of my best and only friends.” He said slowly. “And there is no you in Tevinter, what else matters?”

Fitzwilliam shook his head, “What about all the things you said before? The changes you want to make. That matters, Dorian.”

He huffed a small laugh. “The corruption and bigotry are going nowhere, Amatus. It will keep.”

Fitzwilliam did not look convinced. In fact, he rather looked like he had something difficult and stupid he wanted to say. An argument, likely. Well, that would not do. Not on an evening of celebration. Dorian pulled on the man’s hand, bringing him close, and kissed him. Fitz felt very stiff for a moment, as if he might resist, but then he softened, giving in, as Dorian had known he would.

Dorian let his hands wander as they embraced. Over skin and stubble, silk and leather. He had been very pleased to see the formalwear had been pressed and made ready for the event. After all, Fitzwilliam looked so lovely in it. He would have to have more commissioned. His fingers fell to the brass buttons, swiftly undoing the high collar and then the buttons down to where they met the sash and belt. It would do for now. His pressed a hand inside, unlacing the top of Fitz’s undershirt, and allowing his touch to linger on the newly-exposed flesh. It was so simple a thing, hardly scandalous, and yet he could feel Fitz’s appreciation thrumming through the bond. It was… intimate.

He dipped his head, letting his lips follow his fingers, pressing tender kisses. His touch moved languidly, feeling, for the first time, the truth in his lover’s words. They had all the time in the world. In this moment there was no looming threat, no possibility of death around every corner. Their affection was not tainted with the burdensome background knowledge that this moment could be their last. He was free to relish it, to indulge in love.

However, it seemed Fitzwilliam was not quite as content to wait. He stood, breaking contact, and began removing the sash and belt that had halted Dorian’s earlier headway. They fell to the floor in an unceremonious heap of silk and leather, the brass buckle clanking loudly on the stone floor. “Are you going to finish what you started?” He asked, cheekily removing his boots and socks while Dorian watched avidly. “Or will I be undressing myself?”

Dorian stood eagerly. It was not often he had an opportunity like this. Generally, they removed each other’s clothing and their own in a hurried rush with no thought as to who was performing which action. He was not going to pass up the chance to tease Fitz in this way. He approached Fitzwilliam, circling once and coming to a stop before him. He reached out, hands taking the remaining button in his fingers, and leaned over, dipping his head so his lips brushed the Inquisitor’s ear as he purred, “It would be my pleasure.” He felt the small shudder his words provoked as he slipped the round disk of brass through the hole and reached under the silk.

His hands smoothed up the expanse of Fitzwilliam’s back, pressing his palms so that he could feel the shift of muscle beneath them. He would give the sneaky bastard this much: all of the climbing he performed did wonders for his physique. He let his hands smooth round front and up to his shoulders as he used the action to shrug the jacket onto the floor. The shirt went next, in one liquid motion, over Fitzwilliam’s head and onto the floor with the rest of the articles.

The expanse of flesh now bared to him was dizzying and Dorian found himself dropping kisses on neck and shoulders and chest. Down, down, down, until his nose was nestled in the small patch of hair just below the navel and above the waist of the red trousers. He could hear Fitz’s breathing pick up speed, saw the anxious shifting of stance, _felt_ the excitement in the bond. Dorian cursed the Lenen'hima'sa, lightly. It was decidedly unfair that Fitz’s impatience was being transferred to him. He didn’t want to rush. Still, it _was_ ever so temping to reach out and disrobe him quickly so that he might have him naked and pleading before him, whilst the mage remained fully clothed and on his knees.

Dorian let out a low hum of appreciation, and moved his fingers to the laces that held up the offending fabric. Once undone the trousers fell easily, pooling on the floor around Fitzwilliam’s ankles and revealing, as Dorian had suspected, the red-dyed silken smallclothes beneath. He chuffed a small laugh, pulling them down on one side, and pressing a playful kiss to his lover’s hip-bone.

“I’m going to make sure all of your small clothing is dyed to match your outfits from now on,” Fitzwilliam threatened weakly as he stepped out of his trousers and pushed them backward with one foot.

“Please do,” Dorian returned, plucking at the pull-string which held the last bit of cloth aloft. “I have not your resources but I can hardly have you showing me up in the fashion department!” The knot slipped free and then there was nothing but skin. Dorian was very tempted to grab the half-hard shaft before him and suckle fervently until Fitzwilliam grabbed his hair and allowed the mage to drink deeply of him. He felt a twitch in his groin as the image flashed before his eyes. Then, right in front of him, a second later, he watched as Fitz’s cock pulsed, and the man let loose a deep moan in response to the beat of lust the Lenen'hima'sa had betrayed.

He swallowed thickly and resisted, instead allowing his tongue to snake out leave a teasing trail from the base, nestled in a close-trimmed patch of hair, up to the glistening red tip. He felt a kind of devious pleasure in the sensation of involuntary jerks the member gave in response. Again and again he licked, until Fitzwilliam was standing fully at attention, hands fisted at his sides, head thrown back, panting with want.

Dorian stood, crossing his arms, and waited. Fitz’s eyes shot open, looking up at the mage with pleading and question in his eyes and finding only Dorian’s well-crafted smirk of pride for response. The mage quirked a brow quizzically. Fitzwilliam’s face shifted from confusion and disappointment to suborn determination as his hands reached out and began undoing the buckles and fasteners on the mage’s clothing.

Dorian had to admit, he had approved greatly of his new formalwear. Josephine had had tailored, just for him, an outfit much like the ones he favored, only in the colors the Inquisition favored – red and gold and blue. He was sure Fitzwilliam would have preferred him in blue, but this was quite nice, and much more true to Dorian’s form.

His lover, it seemed, was not _currently_ appreciative of it at all, as he struggled to pull free buckles which were still stiff from lack of use. The Inquisitor grunted and huffed but refused to ask for help as, one by one, he pulled the straps free. It took a while, and Dorian tried not to feel _too_ amused, lest Fitz feel it through the bond and become even more annoyed.

Finally, the last strap was prised from its buckle and the garment fell to the floor. Now that Dorian stood before Fitzwilliam in only his boots and smallclothes, he found he could not hold in the chuckle. “And am I to leave the boots _on,_ your worship?” He asked leadingly.

He was rewarded with a deep flush of read across the lightly-freckled expanse of Fitzwilliam’s cheekbones. “Not tonight,” he said, gesturing for Dorian to remove them.

Dorian laughed again and bent, making swift work of the task before returning to full height. He looked over his lover then, naked and beautiful clearly eager to get on with the main event. That was his fault. Admittedly, Dorian could be a _bit_ of a tease. So, he took pity on the Inquisitor, as well as taking his hand, and led them both to the bed.

Fitzwilliam sat first, sliding slowly until he was in the middle, laying back, propped up on his elbows. He smiled at Dorian then, a sultry, lingering, lopsided thing that was half welcome, half challenge. Dorian crawled over to him and took his lips, deepening the kiss until they were battling for dominance. He knew who would win. Fitzwilliam liked to put on a show of resistance but he could feel it there, between them, the desire for Dorian to take him. And the mage did.

He snaked his hand aside and pushed Fitz’s elbow out from under him, sending him flat on his back, looking up at Dorian with surprise and lust. Dorian pressed his hips close, the silk of the underclothes he still wore gliding across the hard wetness of Fitzwilliam’s arousal, and stretched forward, retrieving the vial of oil.

He looked away for a moment and Fitzwilliam moved swiftly, reaching between them and grasping Dorian’s cock through his clothing. The air left his lungs in a rush, preambled by a moan he muffled behind a lip held between his teeth. “I knew you were feigning all this patience, Serah,” Fitzwilliam whispered huskily. “You’re as eager as I.”

Dorian let his head hang down as the man below him pumped his hand in a steady rhythm. “I-I am always eager,” he managed through grunts, “to have you, Amatus.” He lowered his mouth to the arched expanse of neck below him and bite playfully, shocking Fitzwilliam into releasing him. He licked it, soothing the angry flesh with his tongue, and then kissed it. “Apologies,” he said as he pulled back to rest on his knees, vial clutched tightly in one fist. “But at that rate I was never going to be able to give you what you want.”

Fitzwilliam licked his lips and gave the slightest nod. Dorian stood, tossed the remains of his clothing aside, and returned to the bed where Fitz was spread out, enthusiastically awaiting him. Dorian made short work of lubricating them both. He preferred, generally, to take more care on this part but Fitzwilliam was right, he was as eager as the Inquisitor to bring an end to the long separation.

He slid home in a single thrust and relished in the tight hiss and the satisfied sigh of Fitzwilliam’s reactions which followed it. He leaned forward, kissing the man as he set a slow pace of shallow thrusts. Fitzwilliam kissed back, small sounds of pleasure, floating up into Dorian as their mouths worked, tongues pushing and pulling and dancing with one another.

They stayed like that, close and slow, for a long while. Sometimes breaking to press their foreheads together and share breath, or to allow lips to trail over other exposed places, lapping and suckling at the salty-sweetness of each other.

Finally, when Fitzwilliam arched his back, pressing their chests together and angling his hips _just so_ , Dorian reached his breaking point. He leaned back, grabbing Fitz’s thighs and hauling him closer, and sank himself into the man below him until he was seated as snuggly as possible. The brunette below him cried out and arched up again, involuntarily trying to get closer yet, but managing only to tighten himself around Dorian’s sex.

With one hand Dorian kept Fitzwilliam’s leg pulled to him as his thrusts renewed with increased vigor. He slid his free hand across the tan, slightly-slick skin of the man below him, until it reached the place where his manhood dripped. Dorian palmed the sticky wetness, the evidence of arousal and encroaching culmination, before wrapping his hand around the warm, engorged length. Fitzwilliam was a writhing mess of mewls and gasps, hands fisted in the bedding as his head thrashed, thoroughly mussing his hair.

The sight of it was too much, far too much, for Dorian to take. The heat was spilling from him, filling his lover, as he cried out. He could feel the wetness adding to the oil, slicking Fitz further as he moved inside him. He continued thrusting his hips, though all the rhythm had gone and his body spasmed with pleasure, worried he had denied his lover of his release.

A second later the warm sheath of Fitzwilliam was clamping almost _painfully_ around his sensitive manhood, and Dorian saw he need not have been concerned. It might have been fortuitous timing, or it might have been Dorian’s climax thrumming through the bond and amplifying Fitzwilliam’s own pleasure, but either way the Inquisitor had arrived. Body gone ridged, face twisted, lips falling open in a silent scream, cock shuddering out rope after rope of pearlescent seed. It splattered across his chest, a beautiful spray of white on lightly-browned skin, landing among the sliver and red of old scars and new.

Dorian watched in awe, his own climax waning as Fitzwilliam descended through the stages. First his body went slack, then his breathing became deeper, then his eyes fluttered open, seeking Dorian anxiously, as if the mage were not still inside him. They relaxed around the corners when they focused on him, pupils still blown wide from arousal, turning his brilliant blue eyes nearly black. Dorian released his grip on the man, leaning over to kiss him, briefly as they were both still drawing needy breaths. When their lips parted Fitz leaned forward, nuzzling at his shoulder and resting his head there for a moment.

Love flooded the bond, echoing back and forth, growing in intensity. Each received jolt amplified the outgoing sensation until it was overwhelming them both. There was no need to say the words when they could feel them pumping in their very veins.

After some time had passed, enough to regain control from the Lenen'hima'sa, but not enough that either of them had gone fully flaccid, Dorian withdrew and moved to retrieve the necessary toiletries. He returned with two wet clothes and watched, delightedly, as Fitzwilliam smoothed one across his chest, cleaning up the proof of his satisfaction, leaving a wet path in the rag’s wake.

“Maker, you’re a gorgeous man,” Dorian sighed.

Fitz looked up at him, smiling cockily. “You would know,” he replied. “Seen many gorgeous men in your day, I imagine.”

Dorian chuckled slightly, looking happily out the window as they continued the post-coitus ritual. “I wouldn’t say that,” he drawled. “It’s more like art, you know. You don’t have to see a lot of it to know what moves you.”

He heard Fitzwilliam laugh behind him and he turned, retrieving the cloth and crossing the room to place them with the other dirty linens. He had always thought it odd that they were right beside the _clean_ linens, but, he supposed, he didn’t know a great deal about housekeeping. It was probably arranged like this to a purpose. He stood, examining the cabinet briefly, before retrieving two sheets. He turned, kicking the door closed with one bare foot, and returned to the bed.

“Planning on replacing the sheets?” Fitzwilliam snarked playfully. “I didn’t think we made so much of a mess of the bedding as _that_!”

Dorian shook his head, placing one down to rest on the foot of the Orlesian sleigh bed and unfolding the other before draping it around his waist and over one shoulder. “I want to watch the sunset with you,” he explained as he tucked here and there, securing the cloth. “But I am _loathe_ to get back into that suit.” He completed his effort and spun for Fitzwilliam’s benefit before gesturing for the man to rise and receive the same treatment. He repeated the process on him, then took a step back, admiring his efforts. “It would look better with a belt,” he mused. Fitzwilliam laughed at him and he waved dismissively. “It’ll do for sunset watching, I suppose.” He admitted reluctantly.

He took Fitzwilliam by the hand and led him out onto the balcony. He placed the Inquisitor’s hands on the cold stone, then moved behind him, resting his head on his shoulder and wrapping his arms around him. Fitzwilliam let go of the railing and crossed his arms, hands slipping under to embrace Dorian’s as best he could, and sighing contentedly.  

…

For a while Fitzwilliam just let Dorian hold him out there on the balcony. Wrapped as they were in a sheet, watching the sinking sun set the Frostback peaks aflame. The other side of the sky slowly darkened and the first stars of the evening poked through. He should have felt at ease. The peace of seeing a job done. But he knew this wasn’t it. Things weren’t done. He leaned back against the mage, letting the warmth of him seep into his body. _This_ was peace. This was belonging. He sighed softly, feeling the tears prick at his eyes. No matter what, what he did next would change things. Fitzwilliam took a deep breath and turned around. Dorian smiled down at him but then he furrowed his brow when he saw his face, screwed up, as it was, in discomfort.

“What’s wrong,” Dorian asked.

Fitzwilliam bolstered his courage. “We need to talk,” he said, solemnly.

“That… doesn’t sound good,” Dorian responded. Fitzwilliam led them back into his quarters and sat on the couch. The mage did not sit. He stood before him, an Adonis in a sheet, looking down, arms crossed, bracing himself. “So, what are we talking about, oh serious one?” He asked with a half-hearted smile.

“What happens next,” Fitzwilliam replied. “I know you said you were staying but…”

VVV

Dorian could feel his pulse racing. _No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no._ His breathing picked up and he tried hard to keep his features calm. _He won’t want you when it’s over,_ the venomous voice in his head hissed. It had been ages since he had heard the voice this clearly. He swallowed hard and tried to speak. He failed, instead choosing to search Fitzwilliam’s face for something. An indication that he wasn’t about to live his worst fear. But the man still looked serious. Hard.

“I’m not the only thing that’s important, Dorian,” Fitzwilliam said. The force of it was like a punch to the gut. His own words used against him. Breathing was becoming difficult.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he managed to choke out.

“Dorian,” Fitzwilliam said softly. He paused and ran a hand through his hair. “I appreciate everything you’ve done here.”

“This from the man with whom I spend my nights,” Dorian scoffed harshly. “Such adulation.”

“Dorian, please,” Fitzwilliam said and he could hear the pain in his voice, the pleading. “Don’t make this harder.”

Dorian managed a curt nod, but could not bring himself to be any more compliant than that.

“I know you care for me. But I also know what your homeland means to you. The way you talk about it. The passion, the yearning. I can’t ask you to…” _Maker help me,_ Dorian thought as he noticed the way his lover’s eyes pulled tight with longing. It made his heart ache dully.

And then Dorian was on his knees. He wrapped his arms around Fitzwilliam’s waist, put his head on his lap. “I-I know I said I needed to go but… I’ve changed my mind. Please don’t do this,” Dorian pled. His voice was cracking under the strain. He felt Fitzwilliam petting his hair, trying to sooth him. He could feel the next words before they were spoke, a clear ringing through the Lenen'hima'sa, echoed by Fitzwilliam’s voice.

“Dorian,” he said softly. “You’re going back to Tevinter.” Dorian felt the walls break. He clutched at Fitzwilliam, fisting his hands in the man’s jacket. The world was pain. “Shhhh,” he could hear him soothing. But it was hard to focus. He had thought this was resolved. He was staying. Why would he send him away? Fitzwilliam was trying to say something but Dorian could not make the words make sense. Hands were pulling at him. Fitzwilliam grabbed his face. “Look at me Dorian,” he said firmly. Dorian felt broken beyond all measure. “Dorian you don’t need to act like this,” he said.

The mage felt the heat of rage fill him. Not just anger, but actual, palpable _rage._ How _dare_ he play with his emotions like this! Act as if he had no right to mourn. And he could feel it, there in the bond, the lack of loneliness from Fitzwilliam. The lack of  the longing and sorrow and pain that tore through the mage like a storm. Why was he not as upset as Dorian? He growled, felt the air crackle with the pure energy flowing into him from the fade. If Fitzwilliam had not continued speaking there was no telling what Dorian might have done.

“Dorian, you’re going back to Tevinter – and I’m going with you,” he said.

Dorian felt everything leave him in a rush. The rage, the pain, disbelief, worry. He found himself suddenly empty and staring.

“What?” He said finally, his mind prodding at the bond once more, trying to decipher what was happening.

“I know you said you wanted to go alone, but I… I can’t let you go. And I know you said you were going to stay here, but I can’t let you do that either. I won’t make you divide your love. So, in a few months, when everything is ready, we’re going to Tevinter.” Dorian heard the words but they still didn’t make sense.

“What?” He said again, still staring dumbly.

Fitzwilliam laughed lightly and kissed him. It was long, and slow, and he felt the soft touch of Fitzwilliam’s calloused fingers brushing away tears he had never felt fall. This was why Fitzwilliam wasn’t mourning their relationship. He wasn’t ending it. When they parted Dorian felt more like himself. “You can’t,” he said finally, as Fitzwilliam caressed his cheek and looked lovingly down into his eyes. “The Inquisition.”

“I think you will find,” Fitzwilliam said with a small half-smile, “I have thought of everything. Except how to break the news, apparently. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Serah.” There was pain in those words and it pulsed through the Lenen'hima'sa. Dorian believed him. Of course he hadn’t meant to hurt him. Fitzwilliam would never knowingly break his heart, he knew that now that he could see clearly. “I was expecting you to say you were going, earlier, before we… got distracted. And I was going to tell you of the arrangements I had made, and how you were being needlessly stubborn. But then you didn’t and I was flustered and…”

“Distracted?” Dorian completed the thought. “Sex will do that. It’s distracting.”

“I heard a rumor,” Fitz smirked back. “Well, either way, I suppose I could tell you now.”

“I…” Dorian swallowed hard feeling the prick of more tears behind his eyes. Tears at the beauty of the man before him. “Yes. I think I need you to explain.”

Fitzwilliam’s hands pulled him gently, urging him onto the couch. Dorian complied, but would not let go of the Inquisitor’s hand. “I told you once,” he began, “that you are not a liability – you are motivation. And now you have been inspiration. I started planning from the moment you approached me about going home. After the Temple of Mythal.” His thumb was moving slowly across the back of Dorian’s hand and he watched it, mesmerized. “I had hoped you wouldn’t leave, but I soon realized that staying would eat at you. You would watch Tevinter crumble and you would crumble with it. But your concerns were valid.” Fitzwilliam sighed, frustrated. “I’m making a mess of this explanation.”

“Start at the beginning,” Dorian suggested softly.

“I realized that neither of us would be happy in the long run. I had dreams, terrible dreams, about telling you we should end things, so you could go home. You always seemed so unruffled by it. Told me you wouldn’t even muss your hair.” Fitzwilliam managed a wry smile up at him. “It seemed an impossible task and I despaired. Until I realized, we were already doing the impossible. If _we_ could fight Coryphaeus, _I_ could find a way to make this work. So I contacted that mage you recommended to me, Dexsius, and I asked Dagna to work with us on some projects. I contacted your father, and the barrister in charge of my estate. I talked with the Inquisition council.  I feel now I like I have accounted for any possible objection you may have.” He smirked at Dorian and said, “So, go ahead. Give it a shot.”

Dorian blinked. “Well, how about the obvious: you’re the Inquisitor, and the Inquisition needs you.”

Fitzwilliam smiled. “And they shall have me. With the help of Dagna and Mage Dexsius we have that covered. Dagna has invented a rune which will allow me to communicate instantly over leagues.”

Dorian’s mouth fell open. “That’s…. astounding,” he said with a smile. “But that wouldn’t work, surely,” he said after a moment. “You’ll need more than to just talk to the council. You’ll need to write decrees, sign things, strategize.”

“Yes,” Fitzwilliam said with a smile. “That’s the next part. Mage Dexsius and Dagna have invented a…. device. It allows for the transport of objects, instantly, over huge spans of distance.”

Dorian laughed long and hard. “Fitzwilliam, how stupid do you think I am? There are laws to magic. Such a thing cannot be done.”

“And yet,” Fitzwilliam replied with a smile, “it has.”

“Explain,” Dorian said, suddenly serious. He had a feeling he knew what was about to be said.

“Before I do, I need you to understand this project has been developed in the utmost secrecy. Telling you of it will bring the total number of people who know about it to…” He screwed up his face, thinking. “Eight. In all of Thedas.” Dorian nodded. “I’m sure you’ve guessed that part of it is entering the fade, physically entering it, I mean.”

“Maker, Fitz, you know how dangerous and reckless that is,” Dorian grumbled.

“No, we’ve accounted for this. Nothing is ever actually in the fade, well not in a way in which we can interact.” He sighed. “Or rather, that’s the theory. The working prototype is a little glitchy, but I have faith they can make it work. Dexsius would do a far better job of explaining. Basically, you step into the device in one place, and out of the companion device on the other end. In the blink of an eye. Dexsius will tell you anything you want to know about it. I told him to make himself and his notes available to you. But, you understand, it’s incredibly important it stays secret.”

Dorian couldn’t blink. Surely such a thing wasn’t possible but… “I’ll look. The principle seems sound. And Dexsius has always been a man firmly rooted in the sciences.” He found he was intrigued, dangerous as that was. “I’ll not let you endanger yourself in the fade, you realize.” He gave the Inquisitor a pointed look.

Fitzwilliam smiled at him. “Naturally.”

Dorian nodded. “What about the device that allows you to communicate?”

“That one is pure Dwarven enchanting,” Fitzwilliam said with a chuckle. “Well beyond me. But Dagna and her companion should be able to fill you in. And yes, before you ask, the council knows about everything, all of my plans. They’re on board with me going. I’ll come back whenever I am needed, and be able to return in time for dinner.”

“But surely you being in two places at once will make people ask questions,” Dorian said worriedly.

“I’ll have made half-a-dozen trips by the time one report arrives, but, yes, I suppose it will be very confusing. Something to add to my legend, perhaps,” Fitzwilliam laughed, “but nothing anyone will actually believe.”

“Okay,” Dorian sighed. _This is the hard part._ “But Amatus, even if I do go home… I meant what I said. This is something _I_ need to do.”

Fitzwilliam squeezed his hands and pulled him closer. “Dorian,” he said with soft sincerity. “I don’t know why you persist in this idea that that means you have to do it alone.”

“It does, Fitz. I can’t let you roll in and conquer my homeland,” Dorian said firmly.

Fitzwilliam shook his head. “No. I… Dorian, I defeated Coryphaeus. But I didn’t do that alone. You were with me every step of the way. Fighting at my side, holding me in the night, soothing me when…” He heard Fitzwilliam’s voice crack. Dorian dropped one of Fitzwilliam’s hands and reached up, touching his neck lightly. “When we lost people. Keeping me in check when I started to lose myself. I was the man with the fate of Thedas riding on my shoulders. And you, Serah,” he sighed, closing his eyes and pressing his head into the mage’s touch. “You were the man who gave me the strength to carry it.” Dorian felt all the air leave his lungs at once. The world became unsteady in his vision. “I couldn’t have done it alone, Dorian. And neither can you.”

He could feel the sincerity thrumming in the bond like so much magic from beyond the veil. Dorian shook his head in disbelief. “You’re the Herald of Andraste, Fitzwilliam. I’m not that man.”

Fitzwilliam opened his eyes and looked at him. “You have this ridiculous notion that I am the leading man in this story and you are a mere footnote. A clever bit of trivia to trip up historians, isn’t that what you said? But you’re _not_ the plucky sidekick Dorian. You’re a hero. You’re… my partner. In crime, in heroics, and I’m _not_ leaving you.”

"Festis bei umo canavarum,” Dorian huffed. He pulled Fitzwilliam close in a rush, slanting his mouth over his and kissing him deeply. He felt so lively, so excited, so filled with new possibility. It was hard to stop. The sensation of his lips, warm and wet and welcoming – it felt like home.

They parted and Dorian gazed, awestruck, into Fitzwilliam’s eyes. He still could not believe the way the man looked at him. He saw so much more than Dorian did. Thoughts were coming slow. Dorian felt intoxicated by the hope that flooded him. But something was rolling around in the back of his thoughts. “Did… did you say you contacted my father?” He asked. Was that his voice? It sounded a little pitched. The Inquisitor nodded slowly, watching him warily. “Why?”

“Well,” he said, voice heavy with slow caution. “Originally I asked him to help me find a place for us to stay in Minrathous.”

“Originally?” Dorian said slowly.

“Well,” Fitzwilliam continued, “he replied. And he said that he was delighted you were coming home, and that he didn’t think the two of us finding a place would be the best idea.”

Dorian scoffed, “No, of course not. Can’t make him look bad.” He pulled back slightly and adjusted his sheet. It had fallen down his shoulder, baring his exposed chest to the chill nightfall was bringing through the open balcony doors.

“Dorian,” Fitzwilliam chided, “that’s not it. He made a good point. Your standing in the Inquisition and your role in the defeat of Coryphaeus have earned you a lot of influence in Tevinter. They see you as a symbol of patriotism. And now that the Venatori have been defeated and scattered there’s a chance for real change. But you have to start somewhere. You can’t just barge in and upset the barrel.” Dorian rolled his eyes. “Please stop and _think_ , Dorian,” Fitzwilliam implored.

He was right. Maker, how he hated it but his father was right. He couldn’t just show up in the Imperium capital with the Inquisitor and… _shack up._ He nodded silently.

Fitzwilliam let a sigh of relief and continued. “We’ll stay with your father. He’s offered the west wing of the mansion. It has the ability to function completely autonomously. He’s offered staff he trusts to stage the rooms, or said we could bring our own…”

“Stage the rooms?” Dorian interrupted.

“Yes, well,” Fitzwilliam continued. “We’ll have separate quarters. The staff will be in charge of making it look like I am spending my nights there, if I’m… not spending my nights there.”

Dorian snarled, “What? So my father is going to have us live with him so we aren’t living in sin?”

“Unless you want to make an honest man out of me,” Fitzwilliam said with a wink. It was, positively, the wrong time to be joking about nuptials. Dorian glowered at him.

 “No. I’m not going to ask you to live a lie,” the mage growled.

He saw Fitzwilliam startle with the force of his words but he couldn’t sit still anymore. Dorian stood and paced the room – or rather tried too, the sheet was rather in the way – ranting. “You have _never_ made me feel like your dirty little secret, Fitzwilliam. Not once. You’ve never made me feel like you were ashamed of me, or needed me to be kept hidden, or asked me to pretend to be anything other than who I am. Asking you to agree to this farce is a very poor way to repay you and I won’t do it.” He’d clenched his hands into fists. When had he done that? “No, we’ll find another way. I can… make connections in our time leading up to the trip.”

“Dorian,” Fitzwilliam began but the mage cut him off.

“I won’t!” He said loudly. Not quite shouting but he saw Fitzwilliam flinch. “That was unworthy,” he said. “This isn’t your fault.”

“It’s not yours either, Dorian. And as much as I appreciate what you’re saying, don’t you think taking away my ability to make my own choices is _also_ a poor way to repay me?” Fitzwilliam stood, walking over to him. He took his fists and slowly peeled the fingers back until they were open. He then took Dorian’s hand in his and rubbed the palm with his fingertips, soothing the angry red flesh where his nails had bit into the skin. “This will be temporary. We all live our lies, Dorian. The Inquisitor? The man I am when I am passing judgment or giving speeches? That’s not who I am. You know that. It’s a mask I wear for the public. There’s enough of me in it to ring true, but it’s still a lie. And if I have to wear the mask of Dorian Pavus’s close confidant, the Inquisitor, then I will.”

Dorian looked at the man before him. He was so sincere. He wanted to do this. “It will be hard,” Dorian said at last. “I won’t treat you like you are …unsavory.”

“At home we can be who we are. With those we trust we need hide nothing. We’ll probably have to hold off on dancing at public balls for a few months, however,” Fitzwilliam said with a smile.

Dorian couldn’t help but laugh. “A few months, huh? That estimate is a little optimistic, my unicorn,” he said fondly.

“Don’t underestimate me,” Fitz said with a wink. “I can be quite charming. In no time at all you will able to wear me as the arm sweet I am.” Dorian chuckled and kissed his forehead. “Your father wants to help us, Dorian. He believes in the cause. He believes in you. You’ll see,” Fitzwilliam said warmly. And by Andraste’s holy flame, Dorian could tell the man believed it. He couldn’t’ bring himself to set him right – his father would never understand.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said softly. There was silence. He looked at Fitzwilliam, really looked at him. He saw, and _felt,_ in him things he had never dared hope for. Acceptance, pride… love. In that moment he felt Fitzwilliam would move the world for him. “Venhedis,” he swore flaccidly. “We’re really going to do this, aren’t we?”

Fitzwilliam nodded. “Yes,” he said reaching up and cupping Dorian’s cheek. “We’re going to redeem the Tevinter Imperium.”

“Together,” Dorian asserted, pulling Fitzwilliam closer, enfolding him in his embrace. The Inquisitor wrapped his arms around the mage’s neck and looked deeply into his eyes. A small smile played on his lips.

“Together,” Fitzwilliam agreed.

They kissed.

Night fell.

And a new dawn rose across the Waking Sea.

 

~fin Birthrights

AN: Oh. Oh my.

Well, friends, that’s it. Birthrights is done. It has been positively lovely writing it for you. What a bittersweet moment. This is your chance. I want to see a flood of comments. Every thought you haven’t expressed, any questions left unanswered, and most importantly, how this left you feeling. I know I, for one, am all sorts of conflicted.

A few notes before we part:

My Dragon Age Big Bang piece is being posted on May 25th complete with BEAUTIFUL artwork of Fiztwilliam and others done by Eclectify (<http://eclectify.tumblr.com/>)! It is a companion piece to this one, coming in at about one third of the length and is being posted all at once as a complete story.

Secondly, there will be a continuation of this story in, you guessed it, Tevinter. Dorian the politician and Fitzwilliam the assassin will be taking the Imperium by storm! Now, here’s the catch: I won’t begin posting it for three to four weeks. So, if you don’t want to miss it, you might consider subscribing to me as an author so you receive a notification for when it is posted.

The DABB story will also be posted here. If you subscribe you will receive a notification when that goes up as well.

Well, I guess that’s it. It’s be positively _wonderful_ getting to know you all and sharing my Inquisitor with you. I hope to hear from you all and look forward to sharing future work with you!

~Love!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is continued in "Redeemers" with a brief transitional piece "Adjustments" between them. If you want to continue to follow Dorian and Fitzwilliam to Tevinter "Redeemers" is active and posting! Please join us!
> 
> Updates are Sundays weekly. 
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> Please consider donating to my patreon. Updates will still be free, and weekly. But there are lots of little extras for contributors including sketches!
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> Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/rikkitikkicathy


	25. Redeemers Preview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first scene of Redeemers

 

 

 

Ataashi stood on a dark street, leaning against a rough wooden wall, in a particularly rundown corner of Minrathous. It seemed his contact had a penchant for the dramatics of his trade – which was basically a lit beacon stating the consumer had never done this before. Most of his contractors preferred to meet in private rooms in some tavern. Generally, the chosen locale was well and away from their manors, as if they thought that would be enough to disguise their identities. Too bad for them Ataashi was a man with rules. He never took a job until he knew with whom he was dealing. Not that they knew he knew, most of the time. It was better to have information than reputation. Though, he supposed, preferably one would have both.

A cloaked figure turned the corner and approached him. “A nug in summer,” he said, leaving the ending open for response. It was the first half of the call phrase Ataashi had given to his handler for this meeting. The process was ridiculous and entirely too dramatic, like something out of a cheap play. It was meant to confirm his identity. There were easier ways, _better_ ways, but the Vintish did like their theatrics. He, like many of his colleagues, enjoyed crafting the calls and responses to be as ridiculous as possible.

Ataashi leaned, casually tipping himself forward to stand before the cloaked man. “Tans his own hide,” he said, book-ending the call. “What can I do for you?”

The figure cleared his throat uneasily. “Sulla Cervidus,” he said in a tight voice. “Do you know him?”

“I know _of_ him, “Ataashi replied with a shrug.

The consumer shifted from foot to foot. He played with the well-manicured fingernails which tipped his soft, pale hands. Those were the hands of a man who had never done a day of work in his life. Judging from how restless he was, Ataashi guessed that life had been short as well. Most of the seasoned magisters were old hands at contracting assassinations – very business-like, casual even. Just another transaction. The boy, on the other hand, was pitching his voice low, trying to sound older, or maybe disguise his identity. The assassin couldn’t _quite_ tell which. Regardless, those traits alone put the boy on a short list. Only seven magisters had been newly appointed by the Archon, having recently come of age, their fathers stepping down in spirit, at least, if not in actuality. If Ataashi coupled that information with the gold-trimmed navy cloak the kid wore? That list was cut down to two – Vel Vestinus or Herius Iulianus – whose house colors fit the bill.

“I’d like him … taken care of…” His voice went up on the end, making a question of the request.

Ataashi let out a menacing chuckle, let it roll low and opaque like fog from the sea. The boy jumped slightly. It was terribly satisfying. “Forgive me,” he said gruffly, “but you don’t sound sure that my services are what you require.”

“Ah,” the boy stammered, “I-I’m sure.”

“You know my reputation, yes?” Ataashi asked. He began circling the boy, like predator and prey. The boy swallowed audibly and managed a nod. His guard was going up, trying to convince himself he was in control. Sooner or later they all fell back on that. “Then you’ll know,” he said, continuing his prowl, “I don’t take just any contract. You’ll need to make your case.”

The boy nodded again (Maker, could he do _anything_ else?) and reached under his cloak. Ataashi stopped at the boy’s back and, before the child had even completed his gesture, pressed the tip of one of his blades to his back, just left of his spine and three fingers above the curve of his backside. The boy froze.

“I am operating,” Ataashi said smoothly, “under the impression that you are retrieving some sort of evidence with which you might make your case and _not_ reaching for a weapon. This assumption is the only reason you continue to have no more holes in your body than when you came into this world. Are we clear?”

“You-you’re threatening me?” he asked in a voice gone high and loud with panic. It cracked at the end, providing the assassin with the final bit of information he required to complete the puzzle. Only Vel Vestinus was still youth enough for his voice to break – the pubescent give away. The other option, Herius Iulianus, had blossomed into manhood early, and had thusly developed a deep, even baritone.

“Just being cautious,” Ataashi replied in a voice that _dripped_ indifference. “In my line of work you’re either cautious, or you’re dead.”

He could feel the boy shaking with anger now, the small tremors vibrating the blade. “My father could have your head if I so much as _asked_ ,” he spat. The assassin shook his head. Poor boy, more balls than brains.

Ataashi laughed huskily in the boy’s ear, as if that attempt at intimidation was the most amusing thing he had heard all night. “He wouldn’t even know which head to cut off,” he said smugly. He heard the boy draw another deep breath, ready to argue further. Ataashi twisted the dagger slightly and he could see the subtle shift in the boy’s stance. His body was flooding with adrenaline, making ready to fight or run. Both of which would likely get the boy dead. Ataashi sighed and sheathed the dagger, sliding it home with the calming, familiar sound of steel on suede. “Calm yourself, Vel of house Vestinus. I am a reasonable man. I know that threat was born of the foolishness of youthful pride. I shall not hold it against you.” He returned to stand facing the boy and waited, hand out, for the forgotten evidence.

Vel’s free hand lifted and pulled back the hood revealing a young face with generous stubble and an expression of awe. “Who told you,” he asked.

Ataashi smirked. “ _You_ did, my lord. A dozen different ways.” He waggled his fingers. “The evidence?”

Vel looked away, confusion coloring his features, but his hand emerged from the cloak and handed the man a sheaf of papers. Ataashi moved to a nearby window and read them in the dim light which fell from it. He’d give the boy this, he’d done his due diligence. Contained within were a handful of lesser charges, things which would never be brought to bear against a magister, and a single list of names without heading or explanation. He held it out to Vel. “What’s this?”

The boy’s face went pale, the pink rushing out of his olive skin leaving him looking positively green. “It’s a ledger,” he said in a wobbling tenor. “A-an accounting.”

“Of?” Ataashi asked leadingly. It was a question designed to see how the boy would react more than for information about the paper – he knew what this was. He’d seen his share of Sanguine Slates. They were relics of a time when human lives had been just one more item on a quartermaster’s inventory. Largely, the official stance of the Tevinter Imperium was that such lists no longer existed. And _of course_ that was their stance, because even though the entirety of _Thedas_ knew the Vintish indulged in blood magic, the Magisterium still openly condemned and denied it except for uses they deemed “moderate.”

In the brevity of the one season he had been taking contracts Ataashi had seen six Slates. The mere sight of this one filled him with righteous anger. It was only thanks to his training that he was able to focus that anger and keep a calm mask of indifference. The minute someone connected the lists to his decisions, with which jobs he accepted, was the minute he’d start seeing forgeries. Low-life members of the Altus would begin presenting him with false Slates looking to buy his expertise for the sole purpose of advancing their own political agenda and standing. Thus far he’d turned down every assignment which had been posed to him in that manner. Tevinter liked to kill people as a means to an end. Ataashi was merely fighting back.

“Is this a confirmed list?” The assassin asked in an unruffled, even timber as he replaced the paper in the sheaf.

Vel nodded. “I only listed the names I could confirm,” he assured. “There’s a trail for each one. Money paid for silence or trade. You can check for yourself.”

“Oh,” Ataashi assured, “I _will_.” He tucked the papers under his arm. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you want the fourth most influential magister in the capital dead?”

Vel sputtered. “You have the papers!” He floundered. “You know why!”

“Ha,” Ataashi huffed, amused. “You can’t _really_ think I’m going to believe that? I know you’re young kid, but you’re not a nug-head.” He shook his head at the boy. “No, you have your own agenda or someone is rewarding you for promoting theirs. So…” he trailed off, waiting.

“My first bill is up for a vote,” he sighed, confessing. “It’s a good one: aqueduct expansion to the Lower Ring. It will reduce disease, offer new work, dispose of refuse, basically all the things we take for granted in the Upper and High rings. Of course, by necessity this will also improve the aqueduct systems in the middle ring. I-it’s gained some traction, but the vote is looking like a tie. Sulla Cervidus is the loudest of my opposition. He’s bought at least half the votes against me.”

Ataashia was familiar with the bill and he had to admit it _was_ a good one. Usually when one of the magisters put forth a bill like this one it was riddled with secret agendas. Things no one wanted to pass, but would for fear of the bad reputation voting against a humanities bill would gain them. This bill was straight forward with no secret clauses which made Magister Cervidus’ opposition even more confusing. “Why would anyone oppose a running water bill?” He mused aloud.

“Some of the members of the old guard,” Vel said disdainfully, “seem to think if we don’t keep the Liberati in squalor they will rise up and put us down.”

“Well,” Ataashi considered, scratching at the stubble of his jaw, “they do _wildly_ outnumber you.”

“So do our plow animals,” Vel argued. The assassin hoped the boy was going somewhere pleasant. Comparing people to animals didn’t sit well with him. “But we feed and water them, get them care when they are ill or injured, shelter them from the heat… And as such they do their work efficiently and without complaint.”

Ataashi hid a smirk behind his hand and feigned deep thinking. The analogy was a tad insulting but at least it was well-intentioned. Most of the Alta wouldn’t care about insulting the lower classes _without_ the good intent. _Oh,_ Ataashi thought with wry amusement, _I_ like _this kid._ “When’s the vote,” he asked finally.

“Three day’s time,” Vel replied.

Ataashi let out a soft whistle. “That’s short notice. Wrestled with the hard decision of my services did you?” The boy started to object but the assassin waved his hand dismissively. “You know, of course, word of his demise must get to the Court of Magisters with _at least_ eight hours before the vote so his seat can be filled. And I can’t guarantee how the new magister will vote. If word of Velius’s death does not arrive in time the vote will be cancelled and, since it is fairly obvious _you_ have the best motivation for taking him out, there will be consequences, should that happen.”

He saw the boy’s face as he spoke. He looked ready to deliver a retort somewhere along the lines of “I know how the Magisterium works!” That was, until Ataashi had mentioned consequences.

Vel gulped, eyes wide and worried. “They’ll execute me?”

The assassin could not help the laugh that bubbled out of him, high and short-lived. “Venhedis,” he swore. “No! If they executed every magister they suspected of contracting an assassin the Court would be utterly _barren_. They’ll bury your bill, Vel. You won’t see it again for a decade and only _then_ if you’ve won enough favors.”

“So, what do I do?” the boy asked. “About making sure news reaches the court in time, I mean. What’s to stop his family from hiding the death until it’s too late just to spite me?”

Ataashi grinned. “What do _you_ do, Vel? You pay the extra fees and leave it to me. Sulla Cervidus will meet with a very messy, very _public_ accident. His family will not have the opportunity to delay the information’s spread.”

Vel held out a hand, smiling. “Agreed.”

Ataashi smirked. He really did like the boy. He took the offered hand and shook it, firmly, a single time and then dropped it. “You’ll pay half to the handler now, half when the job is done.” The boy nodded his understanding.

Ataashi turned his back on him and began walking away. He waited until he’d neared the corner and listened for the sound of Vel’s feet shifting in the gravel to take their leave before he turned to look over his shoulder and called back, “Oh, and Vel. You’re new to the court. I’d advise you to keep your nose as clean as possible. Trust me, you don’t want to give someone a reason to bring me a file like _this_ with your name on it.” He heard Vel’s footsteps stop abruptly, and knew his words had hit home. The boy took his meaning. The file he carried wasn’t one of political alliances, or lineages, or money like the files so many assassins took. This file was a file of sins. This was the file that bought _Ataashi’s_ interest.

He let it sit in the air between them for a moment. Then he nodded, and resumed his walk. One corner turned and he was gone, little more than another shadow on a poorly-lit street.

 

 

***

 

AN: That's it, it's up! Come read with us! There's politics, magic falling apart, relationship struggles, meeting the parents (Vanessah and Halward Pavus!!!), some really massive shifts in Fitz and Dorian's lives and so so many more things. I'll be so so happy to see you:)

 

~Love!


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